A Man Of War
by Bill382
Summary: The ironmen have crowned Euron Greyjoy king and launched an invasion of the Reach. Along the way, a mysterious vessel crosses their path, spreading death and destruction everywhere she sails. Hostile invaders follow in her wake. Where did this ship and her crew come from? What does this mean for the future of Westeros?
1. Victarion

Westeros. Once a prosperous and peaceful continent, she was now torn asunder by civil war. Kings reigned in the North, the South, and beyond the Wall. For the men of the Iron Islands, such strife posed a unique opportunity. War in the East gave the Ironmen a chance to commence raiding and pillaging the Western coast once again. Even now, hundreds of ships sailed southeast, bound for the Shield Islands that guarded the ancient castle of Highgarden.

Victarion Greyjoy stood alone on the stern of his longship, the _Iron Victory_. To port, starboard, and astern of his vessel sailed ninety warships. Dozens more followed in their wake. A brisk easterly wind propelled the Iron Fleet on its voyage of conquest. A light fog had rolled in some time ago, limiting visibility of the horizon. Ahead of Victarion, a dozen men worked the longship's deck, keeping their vessel in order. The Iron Captain himself, clad in full plate armor, looked broodingly forward. The Iron Fleet had departed from Pyke three days prior, and not a single vessel had appeared on the horizon. Victarion found this disconcerting. Usually these waters were teaming with merchant ships, whalers, and fishermen. What had become of all the traffic?

"Captain," called Nute the Barber from the bow, "ship ahead to starboard, 'bout a hundred yards off. She's all alone."

Victarion strolled forward to investigate. The ship Nute had spotted was a monstrosity, at least twice the length of the _Iron Victory_, and indeed the largest ship Victarion had ever seen. She carried three masts and bowsprit, from which three dozen snowy white sails flew. The ship's figurehead portrayed a knight clad in silver plate armor. Her hull was painted black, with three broad, white stripes running horizontally along the ship's length. Within those stripes stood forty five hatches, all of them closed. Victarion couldn't say with certainty, but estimated that the mystery ship carried a crew of at least one hundred men. In her own way, she appeared elegant, even beautiful. But Victarion, a true Ironborn, saw a different beauty in her. The beauty of coin earned through battle. Gold gained by paying the iron price. Such a broad ship no doubt had equally broad cargo holds to match. What could she be carrying?

"By the Drowned God, she's huge," Nute said behind his captain. "Where do you think she's from, Captain?"

"It doesn't matter," Victarion growled. "That ship is in our way, and will soon belong to the ironmen. Now go. Ready the crew for battle."

While Nute sounded the alarm, Victarion noticed a banner being hoisted above the mystery ship's stern. The banner, wide as the _Iron Victory_'s sail, displayed a blue cross on a golden field. It was a badge foreign to the Iron Captain. Perhaps foreign to all of Westeros. Who did it belong to? The Iron Captain knew of only one way to find out: battle.

Behind Victarion, his crew had assembled on deck in full battle gear. Every man wore chain or plate armor and carried at least one weapon. Victarion drew his personal war ax and unslung his shield. A golden kraken on a black field – the sigil of his house – adorned the Iron Captain's personal escutcheon.

"Ironmen," he shouted over the wind. "Ahead of us floats a mighty ship, laden down with riches of lands near and far. She's fat, slow, and vulnerable. I say we take her. What say _you_?!"

"Victarion!" the ironmen chanted. "Victarion!"

A rapid series of deafening booms silenced the crew. Projectiles whistled overhead, crashing into wooden hulls or splashing into the sea. Cries of agony came up from six nearby longships. One ship lost her mast, while her crew scrambled to ready their oars. Another was sinking rapidly, her hull sliding beneath the waves.

Startled, Victarion spun around to face the mystery ship. A cloud of smoke was billowing away from her hull. Through the haze, Victarion saw that the hatches lining the ship's hull were now open, and broad cylindrical tubes protruded from them. Just what were those weapons? No matter. Victarion would have them soon.

"What in the Drowned God's name was that?!" a frightened sailor cried.

"Must be magic," called another.

"Silence!" Victarion barked. Show some spine or I'll send you all to the Drowned God myself. Man your oars! We'll board that ship no matter the cost."

Victarion's crew rushed to carry out their captain's order. Every man took a seat at his bench and shipped his oar. One man stood aft and steadily beat a drum, keeping time for the rowers. Victarion remained at the bow of his vessel, shield in arm and fire in his eyes.

The mystery ship made a sharp turn to starboard, briefly exposing her stern to the Iron Fleet. Two jets of smoke appeared, followed by a pair of booming noises. A splash shot up astern of the _Iron Victory_. The second projectile crashed into a longship nearby, shattering its serpentine figurehead. A man aboard that same ship screamed in pain. Once again the mystery ship turned, this time swinging her bow to port. Her stern appeared again, closer this time. Close enough for Victarion to read the mystery vessel's name.

It read, in the Common Tongue, _Revenge_.

The _Iron Victory_ closed to within ten yards of the colossal _Revenge_'s port side. Slinging his shield and ax, Victarion put one boot up on the rail, ready to jump.

"Hard to starboard," he shouted while looking aft. "Boat port side oars. It's time to shed blood!"

With that, the Iron Captain leapt from his own ship and onto the hostile warship. He grabbed hold of the ladder embedded with the ship's hull, located roughly amidships. As Victarion climbed, a sailor overhead dropped an iron ball from the main deck. Victarion dodged the projectile and continued his ascent. The large cylindrical weapons fired again, momentarily deafening Victarion with their roar. He looked around for the _Iron Victory_. She was intact, he saw, but her sail was now dotted with holes. At last the Iron Captain heaved himself onto the hostile ship's main deck.

A dozen armed sailors in blue uniforms greeted him. They stood in a semicircle, surrounding Victarion. Each man aimed a spear at him. Or at least, they might've been spears, were it not for the long metal cylinders fixed to the weapons. Unfazed, the Iron Captain unslung his shield and ax, and then roared a challenge. He took a step forward…

"Fire!" someone shouted.

The "spears" all belched smoke and cracked like thunder. Victarion felt a dozen small projectiles strike him at once. He fell to his knees, dropping his ax. While the steel plates had saved his life, the Iron Captain noticed blood trickling down his right leg. It was clear that he'd been hit.

When Victarion tried to stand, an armored boot kicked him down. The Iron Captain ended up on his back. Over him stood a warrior, who also wore plate armor, but only around his chest and feet. Under the plate was a black tunic with matching trousers. A blue cross was emblazoned on his breastplate. He drew a smallsword, aiming its point at Victarion's head. The Iron Captain noticed that the warrior's sword was made of Valyrian steel. Such a blade would make a fine prize.

Victarion growled, stood, and tried to charge the warrior. But the warrior stepped aside, tripped the ironman, then stabbed his left thigh. Victarion grunted with the pain.

"Get this rubbish off my vessel," said the warrior.

"Aye Captain," a sailor replied.

Half a dozen men hoisted Victarion off the deck and threw the defeated Captain overboard.

Victarion landed hard on a longship's deck. His ax landed beside him, burying its blade into a bench. Several sailors looked his way, but didn't say a word. Victarion then realized that the ship he landed in wasn't his own vessel, but his brother Euron's ship, the _Silence_. The _Silence_ was a ship crewed by mutes... and a king.

Euron Greyjoy knelt over his injured brother. His one good eye met Victarion's gaze.

"Welcome aboard, Victarion," said the King of the Iron Islands mockingly.

"Thanks," Victarion grunted.

"What's the matter? Too much ship for you to handle?"

Sitting up, Victarion returned his attention to the _Revenge_. Ships of the Iron Islands now surrounded the enormous ship, but were doing little to actually threaten her. Some iron crews attempted to board the ship, only to be quickly driven off by flashing steel and weapons fire. Others loosed arrows at their foe, which stuck harmlessly in her vast wooden hull. One longship crossed ahead of the _Revenge_ in an attempt to cut her off. The hostile ship's massive bow cleaved the longship in two.

The _Revenge_'s weapons fired again, first on starboard and then on port. More smoke filled the air. More cries echoed from the ironmen. More longships sank or took heavy damage. At least two more masts toppled into the foaming ocean. A projectile struck the _Silence_'s stern, killing the man at the steering oar.

With her stern facing west, the _Revenge_ continued on her easterly course. She vanished into the fog minutes later. In her wake were dozens of damaged or destroyed ships of the Iron Fleet. Hundreds of men were dead or injured. Many were dragged down by the weight of their own armor. The Drowned God's hall would be full tonight.

"Euron," said an exhausted Victarion, "have you ever seen such a vessel?"

"No, brother, but I have heard tales of such during my travels. They were tales of ships as big as castles and just as strong. They go by many names, but the one name I heard the most was 'man of war.'"


	2. Richard

Lieutenant Richard Collins sat behind a desk in his cabin aboard the _Revenge_, recalling history lessons from his youth. Millenia ago, one thousand of his ancestors - the First Men - fled Westeros when the Andals invaded. They sailed west, beyond the edge of the known world, and landed on a broad archipelago. The islands were heavily wooded, and rich with game, prompting the First Men refugees to name them 'The Forest Islands.' But the First Men were not the first to arrive in the Forest Islands. The natives, a fair-skinned people called the Ferens, came ashore a century before, seeking religious freedom. Unlike their previous overlords, - and even more unlike the First Men - the Ferens worshiped their ancestors. Over generations the two peoples became one, retaining the name 'Ferens,' and today were indistinguishable.

In the year 700 Before Conquest (by the Westerosi calender), an invasion force from Asshai invaded the Forest Islands, capturing the Ferens' capital city of Ferenfal. This invasion spurned the greatest invention ever devised by the Ferens: gunpowder. Bombs and rockets quickly followed gunpowder, along with cannons and firearms. The Ferens then retook the city, utilizing their newly invented weaponry to devastating effect. The Asshai force, armed only with melee weapons and bows, was nearly annihilated. Of the thousands that took part in the invasion, only two dozen Asshai fighters remained standing at the end of the bloody assault. The Ferens provided the Asshai with a single ship, and sent them back west, warning them never to return. But the Asshai _did_ return, this time with merchant ships. Asshai became the Forest Island's leading trade partner, and still was today. Within a few generations, Ferenfal turned into a powerful trading city, sending ships to Asshai, Qaarth, and Valyria. But despite all their success in trade with the western nations, Ferense sailors had never returned to Westeros. Until today.

A knock sounded on the cabin door.

"Come in," said Collins as he looked up.

Midshipman James opened the door. "Sir, the Captain requests your presence up on the quarterdeck."

Richard pushed back his chair and stood up. After buckling on his smallsword, Richard followed James up to the ship's quarterdeck.

It was a clear morning out on deck. The sun shone brightly in the east, while the wind blew in stiffly from the southwest. Sailors and marines were going about their daily business as usual - standing watches, cooking meals, repairing gear, maintaining weapons. Captain Cearul Diarmad stood aft on the quarterdeck beside the helm station, wearing the same black uniform, smallsword, and steel armor as he had during the engagement with the Iron Fleet. Richard wore a similar outfit, as did the other naval officers aboard. The black uniform was standard issue to naval officers (the armor was not), while the enlisted sailors wore grey shirts with brown trousers and boots. The marines wore blue uniforms.

"Good morning, Mr. Collins," Diarmad greeted Richard as the Lieutenant joined him. "A lovely morning, is it not?"

"Indeed it is, sir," said Richard. "You sent for me?"

"Yes. Please follow me.

Diarmad led Richard up to the ship's stern. The two officers looked out at the eleven ships sailing in formation behind the _Revenge_. The squadron consisted of three men of war, three frigates, two brigs, a pair of mortar ships, one schooner, and a galley. The men of war, like the _Revenge_, each carried one hundred guns and a compliment of five hundred men. The smaller frigates carried forty four guns and three hundred men. The brigs carried twenty two guns and one hundred men. The schooner and mortar ships, being the smallest fighting vessels, bore a compliment of twenty five men, one dozen guns and (for the mortar ships) four mortars. The galley was crewed by prison inmates as part of the penal system. Each vessel flew an ensign displaying a blue cross on a golden field: the battle standard of the Forest Islands Republic. Together, the twelve ships were a force to be reckoned with, but they were just a fraction of the Republic's total sea power.

"The Admiral has called a meeting of the Captains," Diarmad said, looking at Richard.

"Is he, sir?" Richard asked. "Do you know what he plans to discuss?"

"I don't know for certain, but he most likely wants to discuss an upcoming assault. We're nearing Pyke, capital of the Iron Islands."

"And the home of House Greyjoy."

"Correct. No doubt the Admiral wants to capture their castle."

Richard noticed that the other ships were heaving to. Diarmad ordered the _Revenge_'s crew to follow suit. The man of war made a wide turn to port, putting her bow close to the wind. Eleven small boats were launched by the squadron's vessels and began rowing their way to the _Revenge_. Richard ordered the starboard gangway made ready. He then greeted each officer as they came aboard, directing them aft to the officer's mess room. When the last captain climbed aboard, Richard ordered the gangway secure and made his way to the officer's mess room. It was customary for the flagship's second-in-command to sit in on a meeting of the Captains.

The officer's mess room housed a long wooden table surrounded by fourteen chairs. It was around this table that the squadron's vessel commanders now sat. They were arranged by seniority: the lower ranked officers were seated on the port side, while the highest ranked officers sat on starboard. Richard stood forward by the door. Admiral Willis Dagher, commander of the squadron, stood at the table's starboard head, overlooking the assembled. A chart displaying the western Westerosi coast was laid out on the table in front of him.

The Admiral was a middle-aged man, with a weathered face and whitening hair. He wore buckled boots, black trousers, a black officer's coat with gold trim, and a white collared shirt. The other officers in the room (including Richard) all wore similar uniforms. What distinguished Dagher's rank was the red officer's sash draped across his body like a bandolier. A Valyrian steel shortsword hung from his right hip. Though rare in Westeros, Valyrian steel was still widely used (and, to a lesser extent, still produced) in the Forest Islands. In the Ferense military, Valyrian steel weapons were used as a badge of rank.

"Gentleman, thank you all for joining me," Admiral Dagher began. "As many of you know, the Republic has ordered us to launch an invasion of mainland Westeros. Unfortunately, we lack the manpower to field an army at present. Therefore we need to establish a staging ground, away from the mainland, to assemble our forces."

"Where should this staging ground be, sir?" asked Captain Donnell of the frigate _Triumph_.

"The Iron Islands," replied Dagher. He pointed to the respective islands on the chart. The officers leaned in for a look. "These islands are a relatively safe distance from the coast, and the locals are not popular on the mainland. The islanders, known as the Ironborn, have a long history of raiding mainland settlements, castles, and cities. Recently they even attempted to invade northern Westeros, but were driven back."

"What is the military strength of the Ironborn?" asked Lieutenant Nolan of the schooner _Wanderlust_.

"An excellent question, Lieutenant," Dagher continued. "It is believed that each of the major Ironborn lords can raise one hundred longships, each crewed by at least fifty men. That's five thousand fighters for each household. Our marines, as skilled as they are, won't want to risk being overwhelmed. But today, we are in luck. The main fighting force of the Iron Islands, called the Iron Fleet, sailed south a week ago."

"We intercepted that fleet four days ago," said Captain Diarmad. "Did a number on it, too."

"Correct. But the islands are still heavily defended despite the Iron Fleet's absence. To hold them, we'll need a strong, defensible land position as well as a harbor." Dagher pointed to the southernmost island. "This island, Pyke, is home to a castle of the same name. It is the most secure fortress in the Iron Islands. Pyke is also home to the harbor called Lordsport. That harbor alone could house several of our ships. Therefore, I am proposing an assault on the island of Pyke. The battle plan will be standard: first shore bombardment from the fleet, followed by an amphibious landing on the coast. Any arguments?"

Silence filled the cabin for several seconds.

"Which is our priority, sir?" Richard asked, stepping above his station. "The castle, or the harbor?"

Admiral Dagher gave the young Lieutenant an approving look, much to Richard's surprise. "The harbor," was his answer.

Dagher turned back to the assembled. "Alright gentlemen, return to your ships and make ready for battle. Pyke is just a few hours away. The assault begins once we make landfall."

The officers filed out of the room and back out on deck. Just as he was turning to leave, Richard noticed the Admiral take Captain Diarmad aside. What were they discussing? Pushing the thought aside, Richard departed from the mess room and retired to his cabin. He had some final preparations to make before the Battle of Pyke commenced.


	3. Liam

Liam Jones stood on the northern ramparts of Botley's Keep, a small, squat castle overlooking the settlement of Lordsport. To the north lay the harbor, while the great castle of Pyke occupied a cliff to the west, just out of sight. The common folk were emerging from their huts, going about their daily business of fishing, farming, and smithing. Liam smelled meat cooking in the castle's mess hall. The thought of breaking his fast made his stomach rumble with hunger. He'd been standing watch for hours. Just a few minutes longer and his relief would arrive.

As Liam dutifully watched, a lone ship appeared on the horizon. She was a galley, Liam noticed, with a black hull and white sail. At first, Liam thought she might be just another Ironborn ship patrolling the islands, until another vessel appeared by her stern. The new vessel, shorter than the galley, sported two masts rigged with fore-and-aft sails. Liam recognized her rig as that of a schooner. He felt his heart lift within his chest. Only the Ferense used schooners. It seemed that after a full year of living amongst the ironmen - and feeding information about them to the Admiralty - Liam's countrymen were returning for him.

Ulfgar, a man-at-arms of Botley's Keep, joined Liam on the ramparts, spear in hand.

"I'm here to take over for you," said the burly warrior.

"Thanks," Liam replied, looking at Ulfgar. "But before I go, take a look at these ships." Liam pointed at the schooner. "Ever seen a craft like that before?"

Ulfgar looked at the horizon. "No. Never seen that rig before in my life. Nor the one belonging to the ship behind it."

Liam thought he meant the galley, until he noticed a square-rigged ship on the horizon. She was a brig. As the two sentries watched, more ships appeared, getting longer and taller. Liam counted twelves ships in total, including three men of war and that same number of frigates. The whole convoy was sailing south, straight toward Pyke's rocky shores.

"What's this?" asked Ulfgar, indicating the convoy.

"I don't know," Liam lied. "My guess is that's a bunch of merchant ships sailing in convoy. That way they can protect each other from raiders."

"What about their rigs? They're too big for carracks or fleuts. They can't be swan ships, either. I don't see any bird-shaped figureheads."

"I wonder why they're here."

Unlike his comrade, Liam knew exactly what was sailing towards Pyke. Here was a squadron of the Ferenese Navy moving in for the kill. His countrymen usually deployed men of war when they intended to fight rather than negotiate. When the fleet closed to within three hundred meters of the harbor mouth, Liam and Ulfgar watched as the men of war reduced sail, turned hard to starboard, opened their gun ports, and ran out their cannons. Liam jumped off the wall's ramparts, aware of what was coming. A split second later, thunder sounded nearby, followed by the whistling of cannonballs. Dozens of shot struck home, smashing through stone walls and thatched roofs. Several careened over the castle walls and into the keep, flying into open windows and widening arrow slits. Cries of pain, surprise, and alarm carried up from the village and within the castle.

"We're under attack!" Ulfgar screamed. "By the Drowned God, we're under attack!"

Picking up his spear, Liam sprinted across the yard and into the barracks. His job as a sentry obliged him to raise the alarm in the event of an attack. It was a wasted effort, and Liam knew it. Alerted by the sudden bombardment, the castle's garrison was already gearing up for battle. All around him men pulled on mail suits, slung shields and hefted weapons. The Castellan stood near the barracks' hearth, directing men to their stations.

"You there!" he called, pointing at some men-at-arms. "Form up in the yard! Make a shield wall behind the gate. Archers to the north wall!" The Castellan then noticed Liam. "Liam! Grab a bow and join the archers!"

Liam obeyed his superior, putting aside his spear and taking a longbow off a nearby rack, which he slung across his body. He grabbed a bag of arrows before hurrying back outside to the ramparts.

The men of war fired again, sending another volley careening over the harbor and into the settlement. A hapless archer was ripped in two by a cannonball. Another shot struck the barracks roof, leaving a hole in it. Fractures appeared in the wall; the result of cannonballs striking home. The appearance of such damage worried Liam. If the wall took enough damage, it could potentially collapse out underneath the defenders, killing anyone standing above the breach. Those luckless defenders might include Liam. Not seeing another option, the spy chose to accept the risk. He climbed the ladder, filled an opening in the archers' line, and unslung his bow.

The Ferenese warships had formed a line of battle, putting their mortar ships in the center. The two mortar ships were flanked by the men of war. The frigates stood further back, preventing any ships from entering the harbor. Meanwhile the brigs, schooner, and galley made their way south towards the harbor mouth. Two longships, named the _Vicious_ and the _Torment_ respectively, rowed out to meet the invading ships. A brig raked across the _Torment_'s bow, unleashing a full broadside on her opponent. Liam saw the unfortunate longship splinter and begin to slowly sink by the stern. The _Torment_'s helpless crew abandoned ship.

The _Vicious_ fared little better. The Ferenese galley and the Ironborn longship charged at one another. The longship turned at the last second, trying to avoid the galley's ram. The ironmen succeeded in avoiding the galley's ram, but not her hull. The two ships smashed each other's oars as they cruised within jumping distance of one another. Several ironmen leapt aboard the galley in an effort to capture her. A melee ensued on the galley's main deck as her crew fought to defend their vessel. The schooner sailed in close alongside the _Vicious_ and fired a volley. A heated round must have been among the shots, Liam suspected, because the longship caught fire. Within minutes she was ablaze from prow to stern. Her crew panicked and began jumping overboard. With the longships defeated, the Ferenese vessels continued to sail southward unobstructed.

The mortar ships opened fire, belching smoke and spitting fire as they roared to life. Eight explosive shells rained down upon the village and castle. One shell landed beside a market stall, where it burst, scattering the stall's wares. Another shell soared over the castle wall and exploded in midair. Shrapnel rained down on the frightened men-at-arms in the yard.

The men of war fired one more volley. Their fire was much more accurate this time, not to Liam's surprise. Most shots struck somewhere on the castle - only a few hit the ground. Six meters from Liam's left side, the wall collapsed, forming a narrow breach. Two archers yelped in surprise as the ramparts fell out from beneath them. Several men-at-arms rushed to fill the gap, forming a shield wall. The men of war were silent afterwards.

Down in the harbor, the two brigs and the schooner were striking sail and making fast to the open quays. Liam then noticed that their decks were crowded with blue-coated marines. Rowboats carrying still more marines were making their way into the harbor. Liam and his fellow defenders watched as the marines disembarked, formed up in four-ranked platoons, and began marching on the castle. The marines opened their ranks as they marched, presenting a more difficult target for the archers.

"Notch!" the lead archer shouted.

All the archers including Liam notched an arrow to their bowstrings.

"Draw!"

The archers drew back and took aim.

"Loose!"

Dozens of arrows took flight. Most landed in or around the foremost platoon of marines. Several marines fell, killed or wounded by arrows.

The archery commands came again. More marines fell, but their advance didn't falter. The platoons broke into a double-time march and narrowed their ranks as they neared the breach. One platoon broke from the main column, forming a single line in front of the castle walls. Liam watched as these marines halted, leveled their muskets, and opened fire on the archers. A bullet whistled past his head. The archer on his right tumbled backward, felled by a shot to the head. The archers replied with a volley of arrows, hitting several marines, who cried pathetically with their wounds.

The advancing marines had arrived at the breach. Archers were pouring arrows onto the marines, wounding many and slowing their advance. The breach was slowly filling with blue-coated corpses. Some marines lobbed grenades at the defenders on the wall, hoping to drive them back. One smartly threw grenades through the breach. The blasts staggered the men-at-arms in the yard. Liam noticed that the men-at-arms had largely ceased defending the gate, and joined in the shield wall behind the breach.

That was when the defense broke.

Six grenades were lobbed through the breach at once, landing amidst the men-at-arms. They burst. A dozen defenders were knocked off their feet. The marines surged through the breach, brandishing bayoneted muskets and roaring furiously. They struck the fractured shield wall with tremendous force. Blades flashed, muskets discharged, and men screamed as a melee erupted in the castle yard. And still marines poured in through the breach like water through a broken dam.

"Fall back to the keep!" The Castellan roared.

But the order came too late. Already the marines had forced their way into the castle's main hall. The main hall gave them access to the whole of the castle. Kitchens, smithy, library, bedchambers, everything. Liam knew right then that the castle had fallen, but the stubborn ironmen fought on. The archers around him continued loosing arrows. Some even leapt off the ramparts to join in the melee. The men-at-arms kept fighting despite being outnumbered and outflanked. It took the Castellan's death (along with those of dozens more defenders) before the ironmen started dropping their weapons and throwing up their hands in surrender.

With that, Botley's Keep had fallen. Liam looked up at the keep's south wall and watched as the green banner of House Botley was replaced with the gold ensign of the Ferenese Republic.

A marine Lieutenant leveled his pistol at Liam. "Get down from there, you!" he barked.

Liam dutifully dropped his bow and climbed down to the yard. The officer put his pistol to Liam's back and directed him forward.

The surviving defenders were being corralled into the hall, arranged like cattle in the room's center. The defeated ironmen were on their knees, humiliated at their loss. Liam was forced to join them. He found himself next to Ulfgar once again.

"Just who are these strange men?" Ulfgar asked in a whisper. "What do they want?"

"No matter who they are," Liam whispered back, "they weren't happy to see us."

Some time later, a naval Lieutenant approached the captives. Liam recognized the blonde, blue-eyed man as Richard Collins, an old friend from Ferenfal. Richard drew his sword and placed its point beneath Liam's chin.

"On your feet," Richard demanded.

Liam obeyed. Richard directed the spy forward, out of the hall, and up a flight of stairs to the bedchambers.

Admiral Dagher now occupied the Botley Lord's personal office. He sat behind a desk, reviewing the Lord's personal letters. Dagher looked up when Liam and Richard entered the room.

"Please be seated," the Admiral kindly instructed.

Liam took a seat in a chair across from the desk.

"Mr. Collins, leave us."

"Aye aye, sir." Richard sheathed his sword and withdrew from the office. The door locked shut behind him.

Dagher gave Liam a faint smile. "Well done, Mr. Jones," he said approvingly. "The information you provided proved invaluable to us."

"Thank you, sir," Liam replied.

"Thanks to you, we now have a foothold on this island, and a staging area for our fleet to assemble."

"What about Pyke, sir?"

"The castle? Well, without access to a safe anchorage, Pyke's garrison has nowhere to go. We shall begin laying siege to the castle immediately. Once reinforcements arrive from home, we'll assault the fortress and take it for our own. Until then, I have further orders for you."

"Orders, sir?"

"One, really. I plan to offer amnesty to any Ironborn that join our cause. Use any methods you can to persuade them. Do that, and you'll be able to wear the uniform once more."

"And if they refuse to join?"

"They'll be sent to their Drowned God's hall. Are we understood?"

"Aye, sir."

"Excellent. Now it's time you rejoined your Ironborn comrades. Richard will escort you down. Good luck."

"Thank you, sir."

Liam stood up, saluted the Admiral, and withdrew from the office.


	4. Bralor

As the such sank lower in the sky, the longship named _Widowmaker_ sailed southwest from Harlaw, making her way against the outgoing tide. Her figurehead of a bare-breasted woman proudly led the way. The brisk ocean wind filled her sail, which displayed the heraldry of House Harlaw: a scythe on a black field. Her captain, the strong and capable Bralor Harlaw, stood at her stern. Today, Bralor had planned on a simple training voyage from Harlaw to Pyke, just to ensure that his crew didn't let their skills get rusty, or their rowing arms turn flabby. Such exercise also kept their morale up. But even with their training and preparation, nothing could have prepared the ironmen for what awaited them at Pyke.

The island's coast came into view. So too did three towering, colossal ships. Three more ships, smaller in size than the initial trio, appeared nearby. All three ships rode at their anchors, not flying any sails. Their hulls were as long as the keep of a small castle, and their masts hundreds of feet tall. At first, Bralor believed them to be simple merchant vessels, possibly ships from the Summer Isles. His mind changed when he noticed the golden banners flying from their sterns. Each banner bore a blue cross in its center. Who did that badge belong to?

"It appears that Pyke has some unexpected visitors," said Bralor to his crew. "What say we greet them? Make the ship ready for docking, boys!"

Cheers of approval rose from the crew as they began hauling in the sail and readying their oars.

A booming noise sounded from the nearest - and largest - of the mysterious vessels. It sounded like a thunder clap. Bralor looked around at the noise, and spotted a puff of smoke alongside the largest ship's hull. A splash shot up from the water less than a meter from the _Widowmaker_'s port bow.

"What was _that_?" a surprised sailor asked.

Another blast sounded. More smoke appeared, followed by a second splash. The crew, unsure of just what was happening, looked at their captain nervously.

A wide cloud of smoke appeared beside the nearby ship. More thunder sounded, even louder this time. More splashes shot up around the longship. One struck the forward rail, shattering it and killing a nearby sailor. Bralor then understood the situation... warships!

"Hard to starboard!" he shouted. "Set the sail! Rowers to your oars! Let's get out of here!"

The crew jumped into action at the Captain's commands. The steersman threw all his weight against the steering oar, sending the longship into a starboard turn. The rowers heaved against their oars and the ship responded with an increased speed. Two sailors aligned the longship's sail until the wind filled its cloth surface, then made it fast. With all oars pulling and her sail filled, the _Widowmaker_ cruised west from Pyke at full sea speed.

The hostile warships kept shooting until the ironmen were out of range. Once the shooting ceased, Bralor ordered the rowers to slow their pace. The chances of such ponderous ships giving chase were notably slim. Just getting a vessel that big free of her anchor was a time-consuming chore. The ironmen were safe, for the time being.

The Ironborn captain could scarcely believe what he and his crew encountered near Lordsport. More questions entered his mind than he could answer. Where did those ships come from? Who commanded them? And above all... why were they attacking the Iron Islands? Did the King know about this incursion? If not, he would certainly want to.

Bralor addressed his crew as they rowed. "Brothers, we escaped death just now, but we don't have time to gloat about it. Pyke has been invaded. And if one island falls, the remaining seven might suffer the same fate. I doubt that King Euron is aware of this new threat. Therefore we must deliver the news to him. I hope you're ready for a long voyage, because we're sailing south."

"Why south, Captain?" a rower asked.

"To find the Iron Fleet and Euron Crow's Eye. And pray to the Drowned God that those floating fortresses didn't cross the King first."

"But Captain," another man protested, "shouldn't we stay and fight? Harlaw might come under attack."

Bralor looked the rower straight in the eye. "We are Ironborn, but we are certainly not foolish. Our brethren may call us 'craven,' but when they stare down such an opponent themselves, well... then they'll call us 'smart.'"


	5. Euron

King Euron Crow's Eye walked the outer terrace of Oakenshield castle. The skies had darkened overhead as the sun set and clouds filled the air. There would be rain tonight. The Ironborn king could feel it in his bones. Ships of the Iron Fleet rested on the beach below the fortress, or at anchor in the waters surrounding the island. Their crews slept soundly after a long day of battle, followed by a night of revelry. Euron and his own crew landed on Oakenshield, captured the castle, and humiliated Lord Humfrey Hewett and his household. Nute the Barber was named the new Lord of Oakenshield by King Euron himself. Following the evening's dinner, Euron ordered his crew to give Lord Hewett to the Drowned God. The ironmen gleefully obliged by dragging the defeated Lord down to the beach, burying him in sand up to his neck, and waiting for the tide to swallow him. It was a brutal end. A death fit for a coward, Euron thought. His brother Victarion, however, clearly disagreed. Fortunately, he didn't openly challenge his King. Euron was glad for that; it would be a shame to kill his own brother.

By now, most of his fellow Ironborn were sound asleep. Tomorrow would bear witness to more raiding, marauding, and plundering along the Reach's coast. More raids meant more spoils... and more salt wives. Such success, Euron knew, would greatly improve the Iron Fleet's morale after their devastating defeat by the man of war _Revenge_. Thirteen ships sank as a result of that battle, along with hundreds of ironmen. The less his Ironborn subjects thought about the man of war, the better. Already rumors swirled amongst the fleet as to the vessel's origin. One man claimed that the _Revenge_ was an instrument of the Drowned God, sent to punish the ironmen for their faithlessness. After hearing this theory, Euron cut out the man's tongue and sent him off to the _Silence_. Such blasphemy would not be tolerated.

"Euron," called the voice of Falia Flowers, Euron's new salt wife, "are you coming back to bed?"

Euron departed the terrace and returned to the Lord's bedchamber. Falia, a buxom brunette of eighteen, lay sprawled on the bed, nude as a newborn.

"Thought you'd never rejoin me," she said in a sultry tone. "You must be freezing in this cold."

Just as Euron started to undress, a knock sounded at the chamber door.

"Your Grace," sounded the voice of Nute the Barber, "you have a visitor."

The Ironborn king groaned with annoyance. "Who is it?" he asked.

"Bralor of House Harlaw."

Euron knew that name. Bralor, Captain of the _Widowmaker_. He and his crew had stayed in the Iron Islands. Why come south all of a sudden?

"Send him up."

Footsteps sounded on the stone stairway outside the bedchamber. Captain Bralor Harlaw entered the room minutes later. His clothing was wet and his eyes were red and dreary. Clearly the ironman had spent days wide awake, without any rest at all. Falia sat up in the bed, not bothering to cover herself. Euron stood before the tired Captain Harlaw, his arms folded smartly across his chest and his one good eye glaring forward.

"What brings you south to us, Bralor?" Euron asked.

Bralor cleared his throat. "It's Pyke, your Grace," said the Harlaw captain with exhaustion. "The Iron Islands have come under attack."

Euron was rather surprised by this news. "By who?"

"I don't know, your Grace. They had ships. Colossal ships. I've never seen such as their kind before. And their weapons... smoke appeared from their hulls, followed by thunder, and then splashes. One of my crew was killed. His head was blown clean apart. It was like magic."

Euron swallowed. This sounded uncomfortably familiar. "There was more than one ship?"

"Yes, your Grace. I counted six, but there were likely more. All were painted black with white stripes. Their badge was a blue cross on gold."

"And what did you do once these ships attacked you?"

Bralor appeared nervous. "Why... we fled, your Grace. Against that foe we stood no chance of victory. So we sailed south to find the Iron Fleet. Or rather, to find you, your Grace. We kept rowing all through the night and into the morning. The wind carried us the rest of the way."

Euron put a hand on his dagger. "You know the punishment for fleeing battle..."

Bralor raised his arms in a panic. "No! Please, your Grace. I had no choice."

The Ironborn King put on a cheeky smile at Bralor's fright. "Relax, Bralor," said Euron as he removed his hand from his blade, "you made the right choice. We have encountered these ships before. They are called 'men of war.' I know what they're capable of all too well. Thirteen ships of our Iron Fleet were lost to just one of theirs. You did well bringing me this news."

Bralor relaxed again. "Thank you, your Grace," he said with relief.

"Now go get yourself some rest. Tomorrow looks to be a busy day of work."

Captain Harlaw nodded thankfully and departed from the bedchamber. As he descended the stairs, Euron summoned Nute the Barber back into the room.

"Yes, your Grace?" the ironman asked.

"Find my brother Victarion and bring him here. It appears that we're not going to Mereen as planned. Acquiring dragons will have to wait. Our home islands are under attack. We are sailing for home in the morning... and to war."

* * *

That night Euron dreamed of his travels across the wide oceans. He stood at the bow of the _Silence_. Waves rolled, the wind howled, and the deck heaved beneath his steel boots. Falia was beside him, her left arm wrapped snugly around his own right. The fortress of Pyke, in all its glory, appeared before them. Euron felt his spirits lift as his home emerged over the horizon.

The sky suddenly darkened. Lightning flashed and thunder sounded. Whistling noises sounded nearby. Splashes shot up from the waves. A looming shadow appeared ahead of the _Silence_. The shadow became a man of war as the _Silence_ sailed in closer.

"Have you ever seen such a vessel?" asked a familiar voice.

Euron looked to his right, and saw that Victarion had replaced Falia. Unchecked by her captain, the _Silence_ collided with the man of war. The force nearly threw Euron overboard. Armed skeletons leapt down aboard the longship and began slaughtering the crew. Euron drew his sword, roared a battle cry, and rushed into the fray. A cracking noise sounded before him, preceded by a puff of smoke. Euron fell to the deck, bleeding from his chest. Rolling onto his back, Euron saw a stranger's face looking menacingly down at him.

"The First Men have returned," said the stranger with a wicked smile.


	6. Richard II

The castle of Pyke was completely encircled. The Sunset sea surrounded the ancient fortress to the north, south, and east. To the west stood the siege lines of the Ferense military. Makeshift fortifications of earth and timber (six in total) stretched across the peninsula, cutting off all landward access to the castle. Within these earthen structures stood dozens of cannon, all aimed and firing at the castle's stout walls. The guns, brought up from the man of war _Courageous_, roared day and night, seeking to smash a breech in the castle walls. Squads of marines regularly patrolled the spaces between fortifications, in case any iromen should attempt to escape overland. The sailors, marines, and their officers all worked out in the open. Given the distance between the castle and siege lines, Admiral Dagher had determined that the Ferenese fortresses were safely out of range from the castle's bowmen, and therefore no trenches needed to be dug.

There had been resistance to Dagher's plan to besiege the castle. The captains, given their job as mariners, weren't fond of undertaking a task usually reserved for the Army. Admiral Dagher had sent the schooner _Wanderlust_ back to Ferenfal with requests for troops but, given the travel time necessary, the men of the 1st Squadron couldn't hope to rely on Army support. And so the sailors and marines did a soldier's job. Thankfully, there weren't nearly as many complaints about the work from the enlisted. Aboard the ships, routine proceeded as usual, giving some relief from life at the siege lines.

Richard had been placed in command of the siege batteries, which even now continued bombarding the castle. On Dagher's orders, a command post was set up inside the captured castle near Lordsport. A detachment of marines was stationed there as well. The cannon noise wasn't deafening inside of Botley's Keep, but the young Lieutenant still found the noise bothersome. Having just finished breaking his fast with his fellow officers, he emerged from the castle's main hall and out into the courtyard, fully dressed and armed with his personal smallsword.

"Mr. Collins," a man's voice called.

Richard looked over his shoulder and saw Admiral Dagher approaching.

"Yes, sir?" Richard asked.

"It's time to inspect the siege lines. As their commanding officer, you must accompany me."

"Right away, sir."

The Admiral led Richard out through the castle's broken gate, with the Lieutenant following beside him on his right. The two officers made their way up the dirt road leading up to the siege lieges. The road continued up to castle Pyke, but no one was permitted to travel past the batteries. They passed a large camp of marines just outside the keep. Those men were being kept ready in case the guns should form a breech. The roar of cannon fire grew louder as they neared their destination. Richard had to fight from covering his ears. A squad of marines patrolled nearby. They paused and saluted when the two officers passed close by. Richard and Dagher habitually returned the salute and continued on their way. Dagher motioned Richard to halt when they reached the largest of the batteries, which was also nearest to the castle (though by a single meter).

Dagher and Richard entered the battery. The Admiral drew a spyglass and focused on Pyke's gatehouse. Unlike Botley's Keep, Pyke had no perimeter wall surrounding a central keep. Rather, Pyke consisted of four separate keeps - three of which stood on islands - joined together by bridges built of stone or rope. The Great Keep, which contained the gatehouse, stood on the main island, and was currently under bombardment. A wooden gate stood in the center of the keep's west wall, with the gatehouse directly over it. A pair of towers flanked the gatehouse. The southern tower, Richard had noticed some time ago, was lighter in color than its twin. That meant the stonework was recently constructed. Richard deduced that the wall had been breached there previously, and likewise ordered the artillery details to concentrate their fire at the wall below the south tower. Ancestors willing, the new, unproven construction would be easily demolished.

"How is the bombardment going?" Dagher asked, still looking at the gatehouse.

"We're making progress, sir," Richard replied. "The wall is holding but our guns are weakening the structure."

"I see." Dagher lowered and stowed his spyglass. "Let me know the instant a breach forms."

"Aye aye."

Admiral Dagher didn't wait long. Just as he and Richard were about to continue with their inspection, the distinct rumble of tumbling rock sounded to the west. The Great Keep's south tower had collapsed. The wall beneath, weakened by days of constant bombardment, collapsed under the fallen tower's weight. When the dust cleared, a wide, gaping breach had replaced the wall and tower.

"Ancestors be praised," Dagher whispered under his breath.

"Cease fire!" Richard yelled. "All guns, cease fire."

The din of cannon fire was replaced by cheers as the gun crews celebrated their success.

"How do you like _that_?!" one sailor jeered at the castle.

"We'll be eatin' your food tonight!" another taunted. "Oh, _and_ bedding your wenches!"

"Silence!" Dagher barked. "Collins, see about getting a mortar up here. We'll need one to support the ground assault."

"Right away, sir."

Dagher turned and began walking back down the road towards Botley's keep. Richard followed soon after, making his way to Lordsport's harbor. Pyke's hours were numbered, but there was still much to be done.

* * *

Richard walked beside the wagon drawn by a pair of hardy draft horses. A single, ponderous mortar sat in the wagon's bed, its barrel covered with a canvas sheet. A second wagon piled high with explosive shells followed close behind. A squad of marines flanked the wagons to keep away the curious. Together the wagons and marines made their slow climb up the hill towards the siege lines.

The young Lieutenant examined the battle situation as the march continued. Around Botley's Keep, detachments of marines were forming up into platoons, making ready to assault Pyke's breached wall. The mortar ships had weighed anchor and were setting sail. They were expected to bombard the castle from the north, lobbing shells into the remaining keeps ahead of the ground assault. When the marines captured the Great Keep, a battle standard would be draped over the keep's north wall, signalling the bombardment to cease. The frigate _Bravery_ was also weighing anchor. Her job was to protect the mortar ships in case any Ironborn longships tried to intervene.

By the time the mortar arrived at the foremost battery, scarcely two hours of daylight remained. Richard ordered the mortar removed from the wagon and made ready. It took eight men to lift the ponderous weapon from the wagon bed, then gently lower it to the ground. The ammunition was also offloaded and stacked nearby. Without waiting for an order, the mortar crew loaded a shell, anticipating the order to fire.

Richard looked at the Keep's wall. Even without his spyglass, he clearly spotted over a dozen men lining the battlements. Dozens more likely awaited inside the keep, formed up in neat shield walls. It was time to test their mettle... the explosive way.

"Fire!" Richard barked after covering his ears.

The mortar belched smoke and let out a roar. The shell careened over the wall, landing heavily on the keep's roof. A second passed before the shell exploded, killing some defenders and frightening many more.

"Reload!"

The sailors reloaded their weapon and fired again. The second shell landed directly in the breach, where it exploded, sending dust, debris and shrapnel flying in all directions.

Thunder sounded off to the north. The mortar ships had opened fire. Richard watched as several shells exploded on and around the castle. While certainly a sound plan, Richard doubted that the sea bombardment was inflicting any real damage.

The Lieutenant heard the clopping of hooves behind him. He turned and found himself looking up at Admiral Dagher, mounted on a chestnut mare. Richard instinctively saluted.

"Cease your bombardment, Mr. Collins," said the Admiral, returning the salute.

"Aye aye, sir."

Richard then noticed the column of marines marching up the hill, muskets shouldered and bayonets fixed. Admiral Dagher motioned the marines forward, pointing at the breach. The marines marched through the siege lines and out into the open. Arrows whistled from the battlements when the marines came in range, at which point they broke into a charge. Over a dozen blue-coated men fell before reaching the walls.

The marines stormed the breach, firing muskets and flashing bayonets. Fiercely the ironmen fought back with steel and arrows, only to find themselves getting rapidly overtaken by the advancing Ferenese marines. Minutes passed before Richard noticed a melee breaking out on the keep's roof. The archers quickly fell to the marines' muskets. A golden battle standard tumbled over the north wall. The ships below ceased their fire.

Richard turned to face the gun crews. "Well boys," he addressed them, "the first keep has fallen, but the ironmen still control the castle. Those marines might appreciate some help. What say we join them?!"

The sailors roared their approval.

"Outstanding! Grab a weapon and follow my lead. Make them rue the day they crossed us!"

Dozens of sailors charged the castle, brandishing cutlasses and roaring with blood lust. Richard led the charge, his smallsword held out ahead of him. A token force remained behind with the guns.

Night fell, and so did the ancient, imposing fortress of Pyke. The Ferens had won another battle.


	7. Victarion II

Dusk fell upon the Iron Islands. Having sailed north from the Shield Islands, the Iron Fleet now rested ashore on the island of Old Wyk, north of Pyke. It was here that a recent kingsmoot was held, in which Euron Greyjoy was voted in as King of the Iron Islands. One hundred longships were now beached on the island's rocky shores, with more vessels at anchor off the coast. Their crews congregated on the beaches, sharing drinks and stories of their recent success in the Reach. Underneath the cheerful gathering was a mood of anger. The Iron Islands, for the first time since Greyjoy's Rebellion, were under attack from a foreign enemy, and their inhabitants were far from pleased with such news.

"I can't believe Pyke was captured," said one ironborn fighter seated by a campfire. The man took a swig of ale and wiped his beard.

"Nor I," a Harlaw bannerman added. "What d'you think they're after?"

"Women? Gold? The Drowned God only knows. But we'll send 'em running for home. We'll retake Pyke the way we took Oakenshield: easily."

Victarion Greyjoy, having overheard this conversation, joined the two ironmen at their fire.

"So says the man who lost his ship and crew to a vessel that shoots metal and thunder," Victarion chided the fighter. "The Ironborn haven't faced a foe like this in centuries. I know you've heard the stories about how the Targaryens burned Harrenhal with dragons. This new enemy is all too similar, what with their flame-shooting weapons and all. Retaking Pyke will certainly cause a hideous bloodbath."

A war horn sounded nearby, long and deep. Every man on the beach understood its meaning.

"Time for the meeting," Victarion grunted. "Let's hear what my brother has to say."

The ironmen, thousands of them, made their way further inland, away from the campsites and beached longships. A sacred meeting ground - an open, grassy field with a raised stone platform in its center - stood less than a mile south from the harbor. The ironmen held their kingsmoots here for centuries, choosing who would lead them to glory with each king's passing. Though many kings had been named here, the most recent kingsmoot - in which Euron was crowned - was the first in millenia. Many disputes were settled on this site, and many wars started. Some wars even ended here. Thousands of years of history were witnessed on this holy ground, and every ironborn respected it. To dishonor the meeting ground was a crime punishable by death.

As the ironborn formed a circle around the central platform, Victarion looked at the assembled. As expected, thousands of men were in attendance. Dozens of banners flew amongst the ironmen, each badge representing a different house. He recognized the scythe of House Harlaw, the skeletal hand of House Drumm, the longship of House Farwynd, the brazier of House Stonehouse, and several others. A man behind Victarion held aloft the golden kraken of House Greyjoy. The lords, Victarion noticed, were gathering closest to the platform. Amongst the ironborn lords stood Lord Rodrik Harlaw, Lord Germund Botley, and Lord Gorold Goodbrother. Bralor Harlaw was beside his cousin Rodrik. King Euron Greyjoy stood with the lords, but noticeably closer to the platform. The war-horn blasted again, this time by a warrior standing on the platform. Euron Crow's Eye, clad in full plate armor and wearing a longsword, climbed up to the platform when the horn fell silent.

"My brothers," said the King loudly, "our campaign in the Reach was good to us. It filled our bellies with ale and gave us fresh salt wives. But now an enemy has invaded our home. Already he has slain our kin, raped our rock wives, and attacked the Iron Fleet. This morning I received a raven from Pyke. The island has fallen. Unless we unite as one, the remaining islands are sure to meet the same fate."

"Just who are these invaders anyway, your Grace?" Lord Harlaw demanded.

Euron shot a nasty look at Rodrik. "That, Lord Harlaw, is an excellent question. Maester Kensyl, here..." Euron pointed to a frightened old maester bound in wrist irons, held by two of Euron's crewmen. "...has informed me of our foe's identity. They are descendants of the First Men, called the Ferens. No doubt they've come to retake their former homeland back from the Andals."

"Wait a minute, your Grace," Lord Botley interrupted. "If they're First Men, then they must answer to the King on the Iron Throne."

"Wrong!" Euron shouted forcefully. "These First Men have a nation of their own. No king commands them, nor will any."

"Then who does?" someone called.

"We don't know. What we do know is that they live on an archipelago far to the west. According to our maester friend, no ship sailing there from Westeros has ever returned. Why is that so, you ask? I say it's because the Ferens didn't want the Andals to know about them."

"Your Grace," Lord Harlaw spoke up, "are you suggesting that we sail the Iron Fleet west, and invade the Ferenese homeland?"

Euron paused, then cast his gaze at Rodrick Harlaw, his face showing disgust. "Answer me this, Rodrik: would you like to sail across an uncharted sea, straight toward an enemy that will strike you down the instant you enter his waters? If you think so, take your ship and set sail. No one will stop you. The Ferens will send you to the Drowned God for us."

Rodrik remained where he stood.

Euron Crow's Eye looked around at the assembled ironmen. "Does anyone _else_ have a stupid question?!" he demanded with rage.

Silence. Victarion wasn't surprised by that.

"What about you, brother?" Euron asked upon noticing the Iron Captain. "What action should we take against the Ferenese?"

Victarion, even with his relative lack of cunning, knew that this was a perfect opportunity. It sounded like the king was consulting his brother for advice in full view of his subjects. Such an act could make a ruler appear soft in the head. With the right words, Victarion could appear to outwit his brother, thereby weakening the ironmen's support for him. If Euron fell out of favor with the ironmen, he would end up deposed (and most likely dead, as well). With the Crow's Eye gone, Victarion would take the throne and lead the ironmen to victory himself, cementing his rule as King of the Iron Islands.

"Well, your Grace," Victarion said, stepping forward. "You received a raven from Pyke. That means our enemy is on the island. And where the Ferenese troops are, their fleet is sure to be nearby."

"He's right," said Bralor Harlaw. "They've at least six ships anchored in Lordsport's harbor."

"But we can't face the Ferenese ships head-on without losing many of our own ships and men."

"Well spoken, brother!" Euron exclaimed with (feigned) enthusiasm. "Did you lot all hear that?! Our foe is too powerful to challenge openly. I say we attack the Ferenese fleet at Pyke. We'll sail in at night and take them by surprise, just like at Lannisport. First we'll set fire to their ships while their crews sleep. Then we'll storm ashore and send these invading turds straight to the Drowned God! Ironborn, will you sail?"

Most of the assembled roared in approval.

Euron drew his sword, its Valyrian steel blade gleaming in the setting sun's light.

"Will you _fight_?!"

"Euron!" The ironmen chanted. "Euron! Euron king!"

Crow's Eye pointed his blade at the sky. "To victory!"

As the ironmen chanted and cheered, Victarion thought he spotted a raven fly over the assembled, making its way south.

* * *

Night had fallen by the time the ironmen returned to their seaside camp. The sky was clear and the moon shined brightly. Euron had ordered his most trusted lords and captains to meet him in his tent, Victarion among them. Lords Harlaw, Drumm, Goodbrother, and Botley were also in attendance. Within the tent, Crow's Eye had a map of the Iron Islands spread out across a wooden table. It was around this table that the king and his war council were now gathered. Several figurines, shaped like longships and galleys, dotted the map, representing the location of ironborn and Ferenese forces. Most of the little ships - marking the Iron Fleet - were centered around Old Wyk, while a few marked the location of ships still at home. One figurine shaped like a galley sat over Lordsport. Euron repositioned several of the longship figures north of Lordsport as he explained the battle plan.

"Who should lead the attack on the anchored fleet?" Lord Drumm asked.

"I shall," Rodrik Harlaw volunteered.

"Agreed," said Euron. "Lord Rodrik will lead the advance raiders in setting fire to the enemy fleet. Victarion, you and the Iron Fleet sail into the harbor once the fires are set. Get ashore and capture Botley's Keep."

"Understood, your Grace."

"Very well. Are we all in agreement?"

Thunder sounded. A hole formed in tent's canvas. Something whistled through the space before making another hole and then burying itself into the ground outside. More thunder boomed. Victarion heard wood splintering and men screaming with surprise and alarm.

"They're here!" someone yelled.

"Get to your ships!" Euron roared as he drew his sword.

Victarion didn't need to hear that twice. He bolted from the tent and sprinted across the beach, dodging campfires and collapsed tents as he ran. All along the beach men frantically scrambled to their ships. The _Iron Victory_'s crew were already making the ship ready for combat. Once Victarion was aboard, the crew shoved their longship off the beach and into the surf. On their captain's orders the crew readied their oars, turned the ship around, and began rowing towards the enemy.

The Iron Captain then got a proper look at the fleet's attacker. It was a lone Ferenese man of war. All her sails were flying, their cloth surfaces filled with the evening breeze. She was firing her weapons as she sailed past the moored Iron Fleet. What was she doing out here? Had the Ferens been tracking the Iron Fleet? Victarion stopped those thoughts - there was nothing to gain by wondering. He commanded his crew to chase the warship, but to no avail. The man of war reached the horizon long before any longship could catch her. Victarion reluctantly gave to order to return ashore. The ironborn king was no doubt furious about this surprise attack.


	8. Asha

The wind howled and the waves bristled as the longship named _Black Wind_ cruised her way through the swells. Her blackened sail boldly displayed the golden kraken of House Greyjoy, which seemed to shine in the morning sun. Two dozen strong and burly ironmen pulled at their oars, propelling the vessel east from the shores of Great Wyk. While a great many longships clustered about around Old Wyk with the Iron Fleet, this lone ship was clearly trying to avoid attention. No other vessels were in sight on the horizon. That pleased the _Black Wind_'s captain.

Asha Greyjoy stood at the stern of her longship. A tall and lean young woman, with long legs, pale skin and short dark hair, Asha was as beautiful as she was formidable. She wore boiled leather armor and carried a war ax on her right hip. The daughter of Balon Greyjoy had defied the ironborn's gender roles and came to captain the _Black Wind_, making her the first female ship captain amongst the ironborn in recent memory. The men who followed Asha either loved her like a daughter, or wanted to spread her legs. The man beside her, Aeron "Damphair" Greyjoy, was neither of those. He was a priest of the Drowned God, Asha's uncle, and a staunch opponent of Euron Greyjoy's kingship. Aeron wore a tunic colored ocean green knotted by a rope, while his long dark hair was soaked and crusted with sea salt. Few could match Aeron's devotion to the Drowned God.

"It's good to have you aboard, Uncle," said Asha, pushing her hair out of her face.

"Thank you for getting me off Great Wyk," Aeron replied in kind. "Euron's dogs nearly found my hiding place. Had your ship not come ashore, Euron would likely have one less voice to oppose him."

"And the Drowned God would have you at his side," Asha added.

"Indeed." Aeron took a sip from a wineskin filled with ocean water. Consuming the Drowned God's waters strengthened his faith.

"So how are we to rally the ironborn against Euron?" Asha asked when Aeron stowed his wineskin.

"With you and I safe, we'll need to find a lord who's disloyal to Euron and eager to see him deposed."

"That won't be easy, Uncle. You and I both know that most of the dissenters were killed after the Kingsmoot."

"Yes, but now the Iron Islands are under attack. Such chaos presents us with the chance to dethrone Euron."

"And how, Uncle, do we accomplish that?"

"By turning his supporters against him. We make Euron appear inept in front of his bannermen..." Aeron leaned close to Asha and dropped his voice to a whisper. "...by aiding the invaders."

Asha scoffed in disbelief. "Are you mad?!" she asked in shock, struggling to keep her voice down. "We'll be branded as traitors!"

"Sails!" a sailor called from up forward. "Port bow! She's a big one." The sailor pointed a finger at the new contact.

Asha scanned the horizon until she spotted the unknown vessel. The ship was indeed big - that much was immediately clear. Her numerous sails were a crisp white, while her hull was black with two horizontal white stripes. To Asha, she appeared as a simple merchant vessel. With the wind blowing from the north, the large ship was on a run, while the _Black Wind_ was on a broad reach, sailing perpendicular to the wind. Despite her huge hull, the large ship was making a steady speed. Both ships would miss each other if they remained on their present courses.

"What kind of a ship is that?" Asha thought aloud. "Doesn't look like any I've ever seen."

The unknown ship began setting more sails on each of her three masts and bowsprit. Within minutes all of her canvas was flying, propelling her even faster. The ship altered course to port, aiming her bow ahead of the _Black Wind_. Asha instinctively knew that the enormous vessel was maneuvering to intercept. The mysterious ship was no merchantman after all. This was a warship preparing for battle.

"All hands to your oars!" Asha barked. Our new friend wants to fight. Let's see how fast they can go!"

The ironmen dropped their work and scrambled to their oars at Asha's command. The number of oars per side shot up from just twelve to twenty. Asha's ship was now under full oars and sail. No ship afloat could catch them now...

The warship slightly altered course to starboard. Two puffs of smoke jetted from her bow, followed by distant booms. A projectile whistled over the hull and splashed harmlessly into the swells, while another struck the base of the mast, snapping it.

"It's coming down!" Someone cried.

The mast toppled to starboard, landing hard in the sea. Half a dozen men jumped out of its way. The mast and sail, still bound to the ship, acted as a sea anchor, hindering any forward movement made by the longship.

"Cut the mast loose!" roared Asha.

Two ironmen took axes to the lines binding the mast in place. It drifted free seconds later. But the warship, Asha noticed with displeasure, had nearly closed the distance that once separated the two vessels. The enemy would be upon them within minutes. Running was no longer an option.

"Drop your oars and get ready to fight!" Asha roared. "Make them regret challenging the _Black Wind_!"

As the ironmen drew their weapons, the colossal warship hove-to and came alongside the ironborn longship, her starboard side to the longship's port. Lines ended with grappling hooks fell from the big ship's main deck, where they latched onto benches and gunwales and oarlocks. Unseen hands heaved in the lines, drawing the vessels together, while the ironmen attempted to cut the grappling lines loose. Asha herself drew her ax and cut a line near the stern free.

The two hulls bumped together. A young man wearing a black coat leaned over the warship's starboard rail, speaking trumpet in hand.

"Greyjoy longship," the young man called through the trumpet, "this is Lieutenant Collins of the _Revenge_. Surrender your vessel, and you shall not be harmed. Resist, and you shall be attacked."

Asha slung her ax and took a bow and arrow from a nearby ironman. She notched the arrow, drew back the bowstring, and aimed at the Lieutenant.

"Asha, stop!" Aeron demanded.

"Here's my answer!" Asha jeered and loosed the arrow. The Lieutenant, having seen Asha draw the bow, ducked the arrow and fired a handheld weapon at her. The weapon spat smoke and emitted a sharp crack as it discharged. Something whistled past Asha's face and buried itself in the _Black Wind_'s hull.

"Attack!" Asha screamed as she hefted her ax.

The ironmen roared with fury and began climbing the warship's hull like squirrels up a tree.

Two dozen men in blue coats leaned over the _Revenge_'s rail, aiming spearlike weapons down at the ironmen. Someone gave the order to fire. The spears all belched smoke and fire at once. The noise sent a jolt of pain through Asha's ears. Several ironmen, having tried to board the hostile ship, fell dead to the longship's deck. A dozen men aboard the _Black Wind_ collapsed, wounded and howlingly pathetically with pain. One man fell dead with a gaping wound where his left eye once was.

The attackers reloaded and fired their weapons again. More ironmen died, painting the _Black Wind_ red with their blood. Asha felt a pinch on the right side of her midriff. She placed a hand there, and felt blood. Pain shot up her side, causing her to cry out. Defeated, Asha dropped her ax and lowered herself gently to the deck.

"Let's get aboard, marines!" The Lieutenant's voice called. "This ship is ours!"

A rope ladder tumbled down from the warship's main deck. The marines slung their weapons and began climbing down the ladder, boarding the _Black Wind_. The young Lieutenant named Collins came aboard ahead of the marines. He drew a smallsword and made his way aft. The Lieutenant put his sword's point to Aeron Damphair's throat. Aeron put his hands up in surrender.

"Where's your Captain?" Lieutenant Collins asked gruffly.

Aeron motioned toward the wounded Asha.

"Alright. Wait here."

Collins left Aeron, sheathed his smallsword, and knelt in front of Asha. She noticed that the Lieutenant was about her own age, with dark hair, pale skin, and green eyes.

"Do you surrender?" was his sole question.

Asha reached for the dagger hidden between her breasts. Collins noticed the action and headbutted Asha, stunning her. He retrieved the hidden weapon and tossed it aside, leaving Asha defenseless.

"Yes," Asha choked. "we yield."

"Smart lass."

Collins stood back up. "Marines!" he barked, "Stand down. The ship is secure. Get the wounded aboard the _Revenge_, and prep the dead for burial at sea."

Aeron assisted Asha to her feet. She groaned in pain with the effort.

"We've lost," she whispered.

"No," Aeron whispered back. "You may not see it now, but this is a different kind of victory."

* * *

Asha found herself alone in an officer's cabin. She was in a bed. Her armor and clothing had been removed. A white, silken nightshirt now covered her. Pain shot through her as she tried to sit up. Curious, Asha lifted up the nightshirt, and saw that her wound had been closed. She then remembered the operation, how she had screamed like a child when the surgeon placed the red-hot bar against her flesh. She must've passed out. But for how long?

The cabin door opened, and in walked Lieutenant Collins, wearing the same uniform and smallsword as he had during the battle. Collins grabbed a chair from a nearby desk and took a seat. The two eyed one another briefly. Asha spotted lust behind the young man's gaze, despite his apparent efforts to hide it. She'd seen that look enough to recognize it instantly. If Collins wanted her, he was more than welcome to try...

"Are you well, Miss Greyjoy?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

Asha ignored that question. "Where's my ship?" she demanded.

"In tow behind us," Collins answered calmly.

"And my crew?"

"Deceased, most of them." Collins' voice grew a bit more tense. "About ten are still breathing. Your uncle Aeron is out on deck, giving last rites to the dead. 'Sending them to the Drowned God,' he called it. I trust you're wondering why you are here..."

Asha thought about attacking the man. But before she could act, the cabin door opened again, and another man entered. This new intruder wore a uniform like Collins, but with more gold adornments. He was also at least twenty years older than the younger man. A smallsword of Valyrian steel hung at his left side. Collins stood up when he entered.

"Please stay with us, Richard," said the older man.

"Yes sir," said Collins.

'Ser?' Asha thought. Was this man a knight? He certainly didn't look the part.

The older man sat in Collins' chair, while the Lieutenant stood beside him.

"Welcome aboard," the man greeted Asha politely. "I am Cearul Diarmad, Captain of the _Revenge_."

"Asha Greyjoy, of the _Black Wind_, and niece to the King of the Iron Islands."

"Ah, yes. Euron Greyjoy. We have no love for him, and neither do you."

Asha paused. "How do you know that?"

"Your uncle Aeron told us," said Richard.

Diarmad help up a hand to silence Collins. "The Lieutenant is correct. Aeron informed us of your shared flight from the Iron Islands after Euron was crowned king. As you might know, we are on an important mission for our homeland, the Ferenese Republic. Part of that mission involves subjugating the Iron Islands. Help us defeat Euron, and then we can help you."

"What are you offering?"

"A great many benefits. Gold, power, influence, ships, men, materials. But most importantly, we can make you a queen. How would you like to rule the Iron Islands?"

Asha tingled with excitement. Aeron was correct: this _was_ a victory! The Ferenese Republic could offer them everything the lords of the Iron Islands could not. With the Republic on their side, Euron could very well be deposed. Then Asha could be queen... or Victarion could get crowned king. Either choice was better that having the despotic Euron Crow's Eye running the show.

"You have my attention," said Asha with a smile.


	9. Liam II

The following morning, when the sun rose over Old Wyk after the _Revenge_'s surprise attack, the Iron Fleet put to sea. King Euron's ship, the fearsome _Silence_, led the ironmen southeast, towards Pyke. Following close behind the lead ship was Victarion Greyjoy's _Iron Victory_. To the _Iron Victory_'s starboard side rode the _Widowmaker_, captained by Bralor Harlaw. It was aboard this longship that the Ferenese spy Liam Jones now sailed. After departing from Pyke, Liam infiltrated the Iron Fleet at Old Wyk, and asked around for a crew to join. Bralor Harlaw, whose crew was short a man, signed Liam onto his vessel. Immediately after Euron Greyjoy had announced his intention to retake Pyke, Liam had sent a raven to Botley's Keep. Hopefully Admiral Dagher had received the message. If not, then his countrymen were in for a devastating surprise attack.

Bralor Harlaw, looking refreshed and clad in a chainmail suit, sat down beside Liam.

"What do you think of our crew, Liam?" asked the burly, red-bearded captain.

"They're a good group of men," Liam replied, not being completely honest.

"That they are." Bralor pointed to the man standing watch at the bow. "Benrik, up there, is the best damn bowman I've ever met. He can shoot down a raven on a cloudy night! He claims to have killed one last night, in fact. Said the bird was carryin' a message."

"Did he read it?"

"Gods, no. He brought it to me. The message read that the Iron Fleet was planning to assault Pyke. Glad that bird never reached wherever he was flyin' to."

Liam felt his heart sink. Admiral Dagher hadn't received his report, and certainly wouldn't now. If Euron Greyjoy's plan of attack succeeded, the Ferenese squadron would be taken by surprise. Ships of the Republic's navy would burn in Lordsport's harbor, and hundreds of men would join their ancestors in heaven. Liam could picture the court-marshal awaiting him right then and there. Liam sent up a silent prayer to the Ancestors, asking their forgiveness should the worst come to pass.

"Now we're off to Pyke," Bralor continued. "Those Ferenese will never know what him them. They'll be in the Drowned God's undersea hall before they figure out what's happening."

Liam made a mental note to send Bralor to the Drowned God himself. He didn't hate the man, but having read that letter, Bralor knew too much. Therefore, he needed to die... or end up as a crewman aboard the _Silence_. Death seemed preferable to a fate such as that.

* * *

The fleet arrived at Pyke that very night. Clouds covered the sky, obscuring the stars, but the moon shined dimly through the haze. The wind was strong, blowing in from the northeast. Such weather conditions were suited to the plan of attack. The high winds would fan the fires, and the lapping of waves against the Ferenese ships' hulls would muffle the noise made by oars. Liam knew that so long as the Iron Fleet remained undetected, their attack would cripple the Ferenese squadron. Euron Greyjoy recognized this as well, and likewise sent his vanguard force of twelve longships ahead to torch the anchored Ferenese vessels. Among those longships were two of House Harlaw's ships: the _Sea Song_ \- captained by Lord Rodrik Harlaw - and the _Widowmaker_.

Liam stood at the _Widowmaker_'s bow in full chain mail. A shortsword hung at his left side, while a pouch on his belt contained a flint, striker, and bits of rope and cotton. He was one of ten crewmen that would sneak aboard one of the Ferenese ships, and set fire to her. As the ironborn ships quietly rowed their way into the harbor, Liam studied the hulls at anchor. He counted two men of war, two mortar ships, three frigates, and a galley. Though they weren't in sight, Liam guessed that the two brigs were moored at the quays. A man of war was missing from the squadron. So was the schooner. Where had they sailed to? Liam hoped they weren't waiting in ambush.

The _Widowmaker_ came alongside one of the anchored men of war. Liam recognized her as the _Courageous_. Some candles were lit in her stern cabins, as were a few lanterns, visible through open gunports. When the _Widowmaker_'s port side met the _Courageous_' starboard, Bralor Harlaw began climbing up the man of war's hull. The boarding party followed him, but Liam made his way through an open gunport and onto the lower gun deck. Bralor was leading his men up to the main deck... straight into the lookout's field of vision. The ironmen needed to burn the ships, but it seemed to Liam that they didn't know where to set the fires. He did.

The spy entered the warship's lower gun deck, took cover behind a cannon, and scouted his surroundings. Hammocks were strewn about the deck, nearly all of them occupied by sleeping sailors. Lanterns were hung at regular intervals along the centerline. Not all of them were lit, however. It appeared that no one except Liam was awake on the deck. That pleased him. No waking eyes meant no witnesses.

Crawling on his hands and knees, Liam made his way amidships, towards a hatch that led down to the powder magazine. His mail kept scraping against the wooden deck, forcing him to stop, look and listen for any movement, then continue on. A man muttered something about ironmen in his sleep, causing Liam to freeze, his heart racing in terror. But the sailor began snoring. Liam took a breath and crawled onwards. He reached the hatch without further incident, much to his relief.

The hatch opened directly into the ship's powder magazine, just as Liam expected. Barrels of gunpowder lined the deck and bulkheads. In the dim light, Liam noticed a stack of stout barrels rather separate from the others. He took one of the smaller powder barrels, removed the plug, and poured a thin trail of powder leading from the ladder to the barrels. Liam then silently removed his chain mail and placed it aside. After buckling on his sword belt again, the spy took out his flint and striker. With a single spark his makeshift fuse lit, and started burning alarmingly fast. He had just seconds to escape!

Liam hurried up the ladder, raced across the crowded gun deck, climbed through a gunport, and dove into Lordsport harbor. The water was icy cold, shocking Liam's body with the sudden temperature change. He began swimming with all his might, fearing what was to come.

A massive blast ripped through the night sky. The sound was unlike anything Liam had ever heard. Flames shot up like fountains into the air. Bits of burning debris rained down, hissing as they hit the water. Men screamed in pain and in alarm. Bells began ringing throughout the Ferenese fleet. What remained of the _Courageous_' hull foundered and sank in the shallow harbor. More ships went up in flames, both Ferenese and ironborn. Liam counted a total of fourteen ships burning - seven were Ferenese vessels, while the rest were ships of the Iron Fleet. Columns of smoke billowed overhead, casting ghostly shadows on the sea below. The main force of ironborn ships - now visible to the north - were advancing into the harbor. The battle of Lordsport had begun. Euron Greyjoy would surely have his victory now.

_Ancestors_, Liam thought as he eyed the scorched wrecks of the _Widowmaker_ and the _Courageous_. _What have I done_?


	10. Willis

The destruction of the _Courageous_ woke Admiral Willis Dagher from his slumber in Botley's Keep. Startled, the veteran sailor sprung from his bed and looked out a nearby window. At first, he thought the blast might've been caused by an accident. Perhaps some careless sailor had dropped a lantern in the ship's powder magazine. Then he noticed the silhouettes of longships, dozens of them. More ships caught fire as he watched - men of war, mortar ships, frigates, the galley, even longships. Bells tolled rapidly in alarm throughout the fleet. The two Ferenese brigs, moored at the quays, were making an effort to put to sea. Willis then understood what was happening.

The ironborn had come. His fleet was under attack.

Willis hurriedly dressed in his uniform and boots, buckled on his sword belt and pistol, slung his officer's sash, and sprinted downstairs.

"To quarters!" Willis shouted as he ran. "All hands to your stations!"

Officers began emerging from their own bedchambers and rushed to rally the sailors and marines under their command. Most of the garrison's enlisted, having been quartered in the barracks and in tents within the castle's courtyard, were already awake, roused by the explosion. All around sleepy-eyed men dropped the tents and reached for their gear. The sailors made their way up to the makeshift batteries atop the keep and on the perimeter wall's northern ramparts, while the marines formed up in the courtyard.

Willis, nearly out of breath, arrived in the courtyard just as the marines were forming their platoons. He went up to one of the senior marine officers.

"Captain," said Willis in his gruff voice, "send one third of your men into the keep and leave the rest here. We'll need a reserve force in case the outer defenses should fail."

"Aye aye, sir," the Captain dutifully replied. "First platoon! Follow the Admiral to the keep. Second platoon get up on the ramparts. The rest of you form up behind the gate and the breach."

Willis groaned. That breach was a serious weak spot the castle's defense. After taking the keep, he had ordered a log strung up across the breach and lined with sharp objects. The log stood there now, with various swords, axes, spearheads, and bayonets bristling its surface like metal branches. Any force attempting to get through the breach would need to find their way around the giant hazard. That should buy the defenders some time.

"Marines!" Willis barked. "Follow me!"

The Admiral made his way up to the roof of Botley's Keep. The platoon of marines followed behind him, their boots thumping on the keep's stone stairs. They emerged onto the roof, where four heavy naval guns stood at the ready, their barrels aimed northward at the harbor. Their crews - seven sailors to a gun - had finished loading their weapons and awaited further orders. Dagher ordered the marines to make ready by the gaps between the cannons. Once the cannons fired, the marines were to step forward, discharge their muskets at the enemy, then fall back and reload before the cannons fired again.

Willis quickly observed the situation across the darkened battlefield. The ironborn hand landed well over a dozen ships and were putting men ashore, with more vessels on their way. Soon they would have a sizable army on the soil. The Admiral estimated that the ironmen would field about five thousand warriors. By contrast, Dagher had only two hundred men and ten cannons within Botley's Keep. The castle of Pyke was garrisoned with four hundred men and sixteen cannons, but they were too distant to be of any use. And the batteries once used to besiege Pyke had been dismantled, and their guns relocated. With no fleet to provide fire support, or cavalry to harass the enemy's flanks, this fight would have to be won by the garrison.

Down in the harbor, the two Ferenese brigs had given up trying to put to sea and were instead firing their guns at inbound longships. Ironmen already on shore were approaching the stranded brigs. Soon the brigs would be overwhelmed by bloodthirsty ironborn men-at-arms, and the Admiral couldn't do anything to help them. He sighed regretfully at the thought.

More longships were racing southwards for the coast. Willis drew his spyglass and focused on the lead ship. He recognized her right away as the _Iron Victory_ \- Victarion Greyjoy's flagship. The Ferenese Admiral suspected that if the Iron Fleet's commander died, the rest might lose their courage and quit the field.

"All guns fire at will!" Willis roared. "Not a single ship gets ashore."

The guns atop Botley's Keep opened fire, belching smoke and roaring like monsters. The guns down on the perimeter wall joined in the destructive chorus soon after. The wind pushed the gun smoke back onto the gun crews, irritating their eyes, but the sailors kept reloading and shooting. A furnace had been set up in the courtyard, allowing the lower battery to fire heated shot. Two longships were hit on the bow by cannonballs. Both vessels began to founder, their ironborn crews panicking. Many were dragged under by their own armor. Neither of the sinking ships was the _Iron Victory_, much to Willis' displeasure. One longship, recently beached, was struck amidships, killing several ironmen as they tried to disembark. Another ship, still in the harbor, went up in flames seconds after being struck by a heated round. Elsewhere three ironmen were ripped apart by the same shot as it rocketed over the beach and into the surf.

More longships came ashore - more than the Ferenese guns could fire upon. Hundreds of ironmen stormed ashore, running south in the direction of Botley's Keep. Some rallied around House banners and charged together. Knowing that the enemy would attempt to storm the castle, Willis sent a runner with orders for the lower guns to refocus their fire on the advancing ironmen, and for the marines to join the fighting once the enemy came in range. He gave these same orders to the upper defenses. The crackle of musket fire soon joined the booming of cannons. And still the ironmen came.

They came as one horde. From the keep, the sight of the charging ironmen reminded Willis of a colony of ants, all surging forward at once. Cannonballs and musket fire tore through their ranks as they charged. Men spat insults and roared with fury, brandishing weapons and issuing challenges. One ironborn warrior insulted the Admiral's wife until a Ferenese musket ball silenced him. An ironborn Captain, toting the orange banner of his house, urged his crewmen forward, promising them wealth and women if they survived. A cannonball stole the man's head and killed nine of his bannerman, rendering his promises null. The lower guns switched to grapeshot as the ironmen drew nearer to the wall. The new ammunition - bags filled with musket balls - sprayed out from the guns in wide, deadly arcs. All amongst the ironborn horde, men fell, screaming pathetically with pain. The ironmen trampled over their own dead and kept up their charge. Some marines lit grenades and lobbed them over the wall, where they burst, shredding flesh and denting armor.

The ironmen reached the castle's main gate and immediately tried to force it open. Days ago, Willis had ordered the gate reinforced with three addition crossbars. Three ironmen, hefting large battleaxes, began hacking away at the wooden gate. Musket fire from overhead hindered their progress. A bowman tried protecting the axemen by loosing arrows up at the marines. One of the axemen fell, bleeding from the neck, but another man picked up the weapon and took his comrade's place. Over at the breach, a large group of ironmen were struggling to climb around the weapons-riddled log while being fired upon by marines down in the courtyard. Willis could faintly hear the marine sergeants yelling out orders. The marines rhythmically fired a volley, reloaded, and fired again. Bodies began piling up in the breach as ironmen died. The marines atop the keep fired volleys upon the attackers outside the walls; but given the ironmen's distance, the Admiral guessed that their shots weren't doing much damage. With their barrels aimed as low as their carriages would permit, the upper cannons continued shooting at the advancing ironmen.

The main gate, weakened by the hammering of battleaxes, gave way, allowing the ironmen to storm in. The lower gun crews ceased shooting and picked up cutlasses. The Ferenese marines in the courtyard turned their weapons in time to fire one last volley. Hastily the marines fixed bayonets mere seconds before the ironmen were upon them. A melee erupted in the courtyard as the ironborn drove into the marines. Blades flashed, bayonets thrusted, shields broke and bodies fell as the marines stubbornly held their ground.

"Fall back to the keep!" the Admiral roared.

Thanks to a brave messenger, Willis' command made its way down into the courtyard. The surviving sailors and marines - only twenty or so men - ran through the keep's open main entrance in a hasty retreat. The door was shut and barred behind them.

"Artillery, cease fire!" Willis barked. He turned to a marine sergeant. "Sergeant, take some men down to the main hall. If the enemy breaks through the door, slaughter them!"

"Sir!"

The sergeant and ten marines departed the roof, leaving Willis with nine marines and twenty-eight sailors. The sailors, with faces blackened from powder, were now armed with cutlasses. The marines fixed bayonets and hefted their muskets, ready for another fight. Together, they were the Ferenese garrison's last line of defense. Willis drew his own shortsword of Valyrian steel.

A grappling hook landed beside one of the cannons. Half a dozen more then came soaring over the ramparts.

"Climbers!" a marine shouted.

"Don't let them up!" Willis shot back.

Seven of the ironborn were using climbing ropes to scale the keep's walls. The sailors and marines shot or stabbed them one by one as they tried to climb over the ramparts. More followed behind. To Willis, it seemed that the Ferenese might be able to defend this position, until he heard the clanking of plate armor behind him...

Willis turned just in time to see an armored warrior charging at him, ax and shield at the ready. Where had _he_ come from?! The bastard must've climbed up another side.

The warrior struck Willis with full force, knocking the Admiral down with his shield. Willis rolled to the right, expecting an attack. The warrior's ax struck the stone where Willis' head was a second ago. The Admiral recovered his sword, jumped back to his feet, and faced his opponent, weapon at the ready. The man was an ironborn captain, wearing full plate armor with a gold cloak. The design of his helmet resembled a squid. Willis recognized the badge emblazoned on the warrior's shield. It was the kraken of House Greyjoy. The man challenging Admiral Willis Dagher was none other than the Iron Captain himself.

"Welcome to Pyke, Victarion Greyjoy," Willis said in a teasing manner. "What tidings to you bring?"

Victarion spat on the ground. "Enough talk," he growled from behind his helm's visor. "You die here."

The Iron Captain charged Willis, who dodged the assault and slashed at Victarion's head. The Iron Captain blocked the blow with his shield. Willis drew a pistol and fired at Victarion. The shot struck Victarion's lower back, where it pierced chainmail and lodged in the warrior's flesh. Victarion groaned at the sudden injury. Willis attacked, hoping to catch Victarion unawares, but the Captain turned and knocked Willis aside with his shield. The two men faced each other again.

"You've got skill, old man," said Victarion. "You would've made a formidable warrior."

"I already am, numbskull." Willis said in turn.

Cannon fire echoed in the distance, causing both men to pause and look out to sea. Dozens more vessels had appeared on the northeastern horizon. They were Ferenese warships. The Admiral's request for reinforcements had gone through!

"See that?" Willis asked his opponent, indicating the new fleet. "Those ships are my salvation... and your doom. Yield now, and they won't have reason to kill you."

Victarion ignored Willis and attacked again. Willis dodged to Victarion's right and swung his blade at the Iron Captain's ax. The sword's razor edge cleaved straight through the axe's haft, severing it. Victarion threw the useless weapon aside and looked around for another. He spotted a bayoneted musket on the ground nearby. Victarion dropped his shield and picked up the musket, wielding the firearm like a spear. He thrust the bayonet at Willis. The Admiral knocked the musket aside with his left arm, charged Victarion, and prepared to stab his opponent in the neck. But his blade stabbed nothing but air. Before the Admiral's attack connected, a wave of humans knocked Victarion to the ground. They were Ferenese sailors and marines rushing to the Admiral's aid. In seconds they had Victarion pinned beneath their combined weight. The defeated Iron Captain roared curses at Willis and his men.

"Bind him," Willis ordered. "He's our hostage now."

"Damn you, swine!" Victarion roared furiously. "May the Others take you and all your kin!"

"...and gag him as well. I can't stand his whining." The Admiral sheathed his sword.

While Victarion was bound in rope, Willis returned to the northern ramparts and surveyed the battlefield once more. The ironmen were falling back to their ships, rushing to meet the threat posed by the Ferenese reinforcements. The newly arrived Ferenese ships were moving to block the harbor entrance, trapping the Iron Fleet in Lordsport. Against the guns of the Ferenese warships, the ironmen stood virtually no chance of escape. What had once been an almost certain defeat was now a guaranteed victory.

Willis then spotted another Ferenese vessel sailing in from the north. Unlike the others, this ship was cruising alone. Willis knew the warship's identity right away, and smiled at the sight of her.

It was Admiral Willis Dagher's personal flagship, the man of war _Revenge_.

"Ancestors be praised," The Admiral whispered.


	11. Euron II

Disaster. Pure disaster. A fortnight ago, Euron Crow's Eye had been King of the Iron Islands, leading thousands of ironborn into battle. Now he rotted in the dungeons beneath Pyke. Rats, not salt wives, now shared his bed. Aside from the guards, they were his only companions. All of the remaining cells, near as Euron could tell, were empty.

It all went sour when the Ferenese fleet had overwhelmed the Iron Fleet's rearguard. While some ironborn vessels were wrecked during the landing, an additional forty longships sank under the enemy fleet's guns, dragging over three thousand men to the Drowned God's hall. Then the Ferenese ships had blockaded the harbor. Try as they might, the Iron Fleet could not escape intact. A few longships were able to slip their way past the Ferenese warships, mostly by using the burning hulks as cover. But the _Silence_ was not so fortunate. As the King tried to rally his fellow ironmen for an assault against the Ferenese blockade, the _Revenge_ demasted his flagship, then opened fire, killing almost all of her crew. The _Revenge_'s crew then stormed aboard, led by a warrior wearing half a set of plate armor. Euron briefly dueled with the man before stabbing him in the neck. Then a boy, no older than Euron's nephew Theon, shot him. Euron had then crumpled to his knees, bleeding and defeated. "The Captain's dead!" The boy exclaimed before striking Euron down with the pommel of his smallsword. From that moment on, Euron Greyjoy had been a prisoner of war.

Euron heard footsteps coming down the corridor, accompanied by the glow of a torch. Three burly Ferenese sailors stopped outside of his cell.

"Get against the wall," one growled. Euron grudgingly obeyed, loathe to take orders from such a dullard.

Two of the sailors entered the cell. "The Admiral wants to see you," said the man still out in the passageway.

"You shall address me as 'your Grace,' filth."

"Shut up, you worm! Lads, shackle him. Let's get this turd topside."

The two sailors slapped a pair of irons around Euron's wrists, then half-dragged the king up out of the dungeon. It was noontime outside. Euron's eyes stung as sunlight entered his pupils. Before long, Euron found himself in Pyke's main hall, standing some twelve feet in front of the Seastone Chair. _His_ chair! The ancient Seastone Chair, made of black stone carved in the shape of a kraken, belonged to the King of the Iron Islands and him alone. But instead, Victarion Greyjoy stood beside the Chair. That damn usurper! Also on the dais... Asha! Another traitor! Opposite her was the young Ferenese boy who'd taken him captive. The boy was wearing his late captain's Valyrian steel smallsword. The man opposite Victarion was a stranger to the Crow's Eye, but his decorated black uniform marked him as someone important. Euron reasoned that this man must be in charge of the Ferenese forces. The stranger motioned the jailers to leave, which they did.

"Admiral Dagher," said the Ferenese boy. "This is the man who killed Captain Diarmad."

"And the idiot who sent thousands of his countrymen to their deaths," Victarion added.

"Me, brother? An idiot? Father always said that I was the smart one, and that you were the dumb brute."

"Quiet," the Ferenese commander demanded. He stepped off the dais, stopping ten feet away from Crow's Eye.

"Euron Greyjoy," said the stranger in matter-of-fact tone, "I am Admiral Willis Dagher of the Ferenese Republic. With me is Captain Richard Collins of the _Revenge_. Also present are your kinsmen, Victarion and Asha Greyjoy. Last night, your Iron Fleet was defeated in battle. Fifty of your longships were destroyed, along with thousands of your fellow ironmen. The Iron Fleet is now at half its original strength. Furthermore, eight ships of the Ferenese Navy were destroyed. Hundreds of men died aboard those ships, burned alive at your command. You have been brought here to face the judgement of both your ironborn subjects, and the Ferenese Admiralty." Dagher returned to his place on the dais. "What say you in your defense?"

"Before I defend myself," said Euron, "I'd like to know what crime I am being charged with."

"_Recklessness_ to begin with," Victarion spat. "Your battle plan led the fleet into a trap from which it couldn't escape."

"I see." Euron look at Dagher. "And what are your charges, Admiral?"

"In burning men alive, you violated the _Denaryn_, the code of conduct that governs how the Republic wages war. Breaking this code is a crime against the Republic."

"What do have against burning men?"

Captain Collins stepped forward. "When Asshai invaded our home islands centuries ago, they burned many men as offerings to their Lord of Light. We do not worship the Lord of Light. The use of fire against people is outlawed by the Denaryn."

"Then who _do_ you worship, boy? Gods shaped like ships?"

Collins put on a look of disgust. "It's _Captain_, and we worship the Ancestors."

"Enough!" Asha snapped. "Uncle, if you wish to defend yourself, do so now."

"Very well." Euron eyed both of his kin. "Brother and niece, when Bralor died, the ironborn needed a strong king to lead them to glory. Our fellows chose me as their leader, and rightly so, for I survived voyages to coasts that would kill a lesser man. I knew where to find dragons. With dragons, we could have built a kingdom for ourselves, built a future for the ironborn. Then these Ferenese dogs invaded our home. We needed to _stop_ them, no matter the cost. After all, the ironmen bow to no one."

"Your lust for glory failed you in the end," said Asha. "You are no longer capable of leading the ironborn."

"I disagree. A woman will never rule the ironborn."

"But a man will," Victarion added. "Just not you."

"Lord Victarion," said Dagher. "Have you and Lady Asha arrived at a decision?"

Victarion and Asha looked at each other, then at Dagher. "Indeed we have, Admiral," said Victarion after a moment's silence. "We sentence Euron to die."

Euron groaned with a mixture of rage, disappointment, and frustration. This outcome was tragically predictable. Since his capture, Euron had been mentally preparing himself for his inevitable execution, but to have the sentence issued by his own family was just insulting.

"What is your verdict, sir?" Richard asked the Admiral.

"King Euron Greyjoy has broken a sacred code of conduct, and caused hundreds of Ferenese men to die an excruciating death. The Ferenese Republic also sentences Euron Greyjoy to death. Captain Collins, kill him."

"Aye aye, sir."

Richard drew his Valyrian steel smallsword, and stepped off the dais, ready to carry out his Admiral's order. Neither Victarion nor Asha moved to stop him. For all Euron knew, they might've been pleased.

"Wait," a familiar voice called.

Euron looked over his shoulder and spotted Aeron Damphair. The priest had been standing quietly near the back of the hall. When had he entered? Euron hadn't heard his footsteps on the stone floor.

"This man is not a hog to be slaughtered at your whim," the Damphair continued. "Let him go the Drowned God like a proper ironborn."

Victarion, Asha, and Willis all looked at each other, and nodded in agreement.

"Euron," said the Iron Captain, "we of the ironborn sentence you to death by drowning. May the Drowned God receive you in his hall."


	12. Richard III

Hundreds of ironborn and Ferens alike crowded the rocky beach outside of Lordsport as Aeron Damphair led his condemned brother Euron down the road from Pyke. Victarion, Asha, Willis, and Richard followed behind the shackled, doomed king. The afternoon's overcast weather matched the solemn mood that hung heavily in the misty air. The four ironmen and two Ferenese officers walked in complete silence, with the only noise coming from the wind and the surf. Even the ironborn on the beach strangely silent. The fog partially obscured the assembled from view, giving them a ghostly, haunting appearance. It was as though Euron was being led through a funeral procession rather than to his place of execution.

Upon reaching the shore, Aeron took his brother by the arm and led him out into the surf. Richard followed, while Asha and Willis remained on the beach, watching intently. The three stopped once they were waist-deep in the briny, chilled ocean water. Euron turned to face the Damphair. The two ironborn locked eyes for the last time. Aeron drew his wineskin of saltwater and uncorked it. He then reverently poured the water over Euron's hair, and spoke the incantation.

"Let your servant Euron be born again from the sea, as you were. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel."

"What is dead may never die," Euron said respectively.

"What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger."

With that, the priest submerged Euron's upper body face-down beneath the waves. The king's arms twitched as he struggled for a breath, but Aeron held him firmly in place. Euron stopped struggling after a minute. Richard then stepped forward and drew his smallsword, ready to fulfill his part in the execution. Usually this method was reserved only for the execution of Ferenese convicted, but Admiral Dagher had insisted on including it, to signify the Republic's involvement.

Richard stood tall over Euron's unconscious body, holding his blade vertical with its point aiming downward. "What is dead may never die," Richard whispered, then plunged his sword between the king's shoulder blades. Blood seeped from the fresh wound, leaving a thin trail of red in the green waters.

Euron "Crow's Eye" Greyjoy now feasted with the Drowned God.

* * *

Richard dined in his new cabin aboard the _Revenge_ that night. He ate his meal of fresh steak, potatoes, and rice without any company. It felt strangely peculiar to have command of his own vessel after spending three years as a First Lieutenant. Richard had assumed that the uncertainties and anxiety of being in charge wouldn't bother him. He could not have been more wrong. What made the new position even more difficult was the lack of a superior. Now that Richard was in command, there was no one aboard that he could consult for advice without seeming inept. For better or worse, Richard needed to be his own mentor from here on forward. The anxiety caused Richard's appetite to fail him. His steward, a teenage lad called Mr. Kenneth, removed the Captain's tray with half of the meal uneaten. With dinner out of the way, the young officer decided to write a letter home to his dear parents. No doubt they worried about him, as parents were known to do. Perhaps thinking about family would help put his mind at ease.

Richard sat down at his desk. His pistol, quill, ink bottle and a short stack of parchment rested on it. Just as he was about to start writing, a knock sounded at the cabin door. "Come in," Richard said, sounding a bit annoyed.

The door opened, and Mr. Kenneth appeared from behind it. "You have a visitor, sir,"the steward said politely. "One of the ironmen."

"Send him in, please."

Mr. Kenneth stepped aside, and Asha Greyjoy strode into the cabin. She was dressed in leather boots, dark cotton trousers, and a black tunic with the House Greyjoy insignia embroidered on the front. Her supple black hair was tied back in a ponytail. Behind her flowed a green cape that fell to her knees. A leather belt was fastened about her waist, a sheathed dagger hanging from it. Her youthful face bore a soft, slignt, suppressed smile.

"Mr. Kenneth, please leave us," Richard instructed.

Mr. Kenneth nodded and closed the cabin door.

The Captain turned his attention back to Asha. "What brings you aboard at this hour, my lady?"

"You can call me Asha," she said with a courtesy that mildly surprised the Feren. "I bring news, Richard."

"And what news might that be?"

"My Uncle Victarion is to be coronated in the morning. You are expected to attend."

Richard found this unusual. Why would someone of such high standing deliver a rudimentary message? There was certainly more to this. "That is good news, Asha, but I doubt you sought me out to run a basic errand."

Asha sat down in one of the two plush chairs across from the Captain's desk. "And you are correct," she said approvingly. "I wanted to discuss our initial meeting, about when your ship attacked mine."

"What about it? You know it wasn't my choice to capture the _Black Wind_ \- Captain Diarmad gave that order."

"Oh really? And what would you have done in his place?"

"I'd have destroyed your ship without a second thought. At that point, I still believed the ironborn were little more than mindless brigands. My mind changed that morning."

"How so, Captain?"

"When I saw you, a strong, confident woman in command of a longship, I began to wonder..."

Asha chuckled at those words. "Let me guess... you were wondering how I looked out of my clothes?"

Richard forced a laugh. "That thought came later," he said honestly. "But in that moment, I wondered if the ironborn were truly as primitive and backwards as I was led to believe. Tell me - are there more female ship captains amongst your people?"

"I'm the only one."

"Then perhaps my teachers were correct about the people of Westeros after all," Richard said with just a touch of sarcasm.

Asha noticed the pistol resting on Richard's desk. It looked familiar to her, and not in a pleasant way. "Is that the weapon you shot at me with?" she asked.

Richard picked up the flintlock pistol, holding the weapon by its grip. "Indeed it is," Richard said as he inspected the sidearm, checking the pan and barrel for powder residue.

"You know, we've never seen weapons the likes of which you people wield - spears that spit fire and huge metal... cylinders capable of sinking a ship, or knocking down a wall. My uncle Euron claimed to have survived a voyage to the ruins of Valyria, in the Smoking Sea. None of the treasures he brought back were weapons like these."

"They're called 'firearms,' my dear Asha. The larger, mounted weapons that you see aboard our ships are called 'cannons' or 'artillery.' All can be referred to as 'guns.' The Valyrians never had guns, or the special powder - gunpowder - needed to use them. My people invented them after our home was invaded by the army of Asshai. In those days, Asshai was particularly desperate for resources, so they landed in the Forest Islands in search of food, furs, and other raw materials. Their attacks surprised and devastated our military. To combat them, an elite group of alchemists invented gunpowder. Guns and explosives soon followed in the wake of their discovery. The Asshai were driven out after a bloody campaign. Only twenty-four of them remained standing when the fighting ceased. They returned later with merchant vessels, and their city became a trade partner with our nation. In fact, our merchants traveled as far west as the Valyrian Freehold."

"Hence why you also have Valyrian steel," Asha pointed out.

"Correct. But never have my people traded gunpowder. To do so is punishable by death."

"I see." Asha stood up from her chair. "Well Richard, if our discussion is complete, I had best return ashore."

"Are you sure?" Richard asked. "You're welcome to stay aboard, if it pleases you. Care for some wine?"

Asha smiled teasingly at Richard, and untied her cape, letting it cascade to the deck. "Remember when you and your late Captain questioned me after the skirmish?" she said asked while continuing to undress. "I saw the lust in your eyes then, and still do now. It's no secret that you want me." Asha now stood before Richard, wearing nothing but a teasing smile. Her pale flesh seemed to glow in the cabin's dim light. "There. Now you know how I look naked. Do you approve?"

Richard stood up and approached Asha. He put an arm around her lower back and pulled her close. "Indeed I do," he replied. "I would be lying if I said otherwise."

Asha tugged at the lacing of Richard's breeches. "Let's make the most of this night, shall we?"

The two young captains made love for hours that evening. When Richard awoke the following morning, he was surprised to find Asha still in bed with him. She was snoozing soundless, with her head resting on his bare shoulder. Could this relationship possibly be more than skin-deep? Perhaps only time would tell for certain, but he hoped by the Ancestors that it was.


	13. Liam III

The morning of King Victarion's coronation came and went without incident. The King of the Iron Islands, seated proudly on the Seastone Chair, was crowned by his brother Aeron, while dozens of ironborn lords and Ferenese officers looked on. The festivities that followed the ceremony were light, given the overall lack of provisions, but fortunately none of the ironmen nor Ferens in attendance seemed at all concerned. Down on the beaches common men drank ale, ate bread and passed around wenches, while up in Pyke's Gate Keep lords and captains enjoyed fine wine and hearty food. Thralls, servingwomen, and salt wives maneuvered their way around the tables, serving food and drink to the partygoers. A group of minstrels played music near the back of the hall. Liam Jones, enjoying his dinner at one of three long tables in the main hall, was pleased by the event's outcome. It marked the first time that the Ferens and the ironborn openly broke bread together. Perhaps this was the beginning of a strong, healthy alliance between the Isles and the Republic.

"Liam!" called a familiar voice.

The Ferenese spy looked up and spotted Richard Collins striding toward him, a tankard of ale in hand. The youthful captain sat on the bench across from Liam. The two men shook hands in greeting.

"It's good to see you again, Richard," said Liam. "How are you adjusting to your new command?"

"Steadily, my friend. Being in charge of a ship is heavy burden. Sometimes I wonder how Captain Diarmad managed to keep it all together."

"I'd heard that Cearul was killed in action. Sad news, that is. Some kind of boarding action, correct?"

"Aye. Euron Greyjoy killed Cearul as we stormed aboard the _Silence._ Euron killed my captain, so I took him prisoner. Then his own brother condemned him to death, and I delivered the killing blow. And the cycle of death continues..." Richard lifted his tankard. "To Cearul Diarmad."

Liam followed suit and picked up his own drink. "May the Ancestors welcome him with open arms."

The two Ferens touched glasses and took a drink.

"How were things here at Pyke after I set out on patrol with the _Revenge_?" Richard asked, his curiosity peaked.

Liam paused for a few seconds, at a momentary loss for words. Did Richard need to know that Liam infiltrated the ironborn's ranks, joined one of their crews, then blew up the _Courageous_ for the sake of escaping, killing hundreds of men in the process? No, he didn't. "Nothing of any note happened to me," Liam lied, wanting to believe it himself. "Then the Iron Fleet made landfall here and things got much more interesting... and bloody."

"I'll bet. Now look at this place." Richard gestured around at the crowd. "A fortnight ago, these men were all trying to kill each other. Now they're eating in the same hall, drinking the same ale, even bedding the same whores for all I know. It's incredible what a simple handshake can do. How did the ironmen react when Euron surrendered to Admiral Dagher? I wasn't there to see it."

"The ironmen reacted well, actually. I'm sure most of them were glad to end that fight, and to see Euron lose his throne. I think at least one ironborn fighter even cheered. Euron, of course, was not pleased."

Richard pointed up at the dais, where King Victarion and his close confidants were seated at a long table. Asha, Rodrik Harlaw, and Willis Dagher were also seated at the high table. "But I know that his brother is certainly pleased."

"Aye," said Liam. "He's just _beaming_ with pride, that one." Liam looked back at his friend. "You've conversed with Victarion, Richard. How d'you think he'll fare as a king?"

Richard lowered his voice slightly. "Between you me Liam, Victarion seems like a bit of a dullard. He's a formidable warrior - Admiral Dagher can attest to that - but he appears lakcing in smarts. His niece Asha on the other hand... well, she must be the brains of the family. Last night, she visited my cabin and asked about the history of our people. Heck, she even shared my bed last night. As far as I'm aware, Victarion has expressed no such curiosity or inquisitiveness. At least not to me."

"Aye. He hasn't-... wait a minute. You _slept_ with Asha Greyjoy?" Liam expression suggested that he was both astonished and concerned, but more of the latter.

"I did, Liam," Richard confirmed with a faint smile. "She stripped naked in front of me and everything. By the Ancestors, she knew her way around that bed. Claimed that she 'saw the lust in my eyes' when we first met. What of it? Is she carrying some illness that you know of but I don't?"

"No. What I mean to say Richard is that Asha likely had an ulterior motive for sleeping with you, other than mere lust. You said so yourself that she's an intelligent woman. Was there anything... unusual about her visit to your cabin?"

As much as he wanted to ignore this question, Richard knew that Liam was a veteran spy, experienced in many forms of espionage. Blackmail, assassination, infiltration, covert strikes - that was the dangerous life of a spy, and Liam had been living it for ten years. Richard would be daft to ignore any input or advice that Liam could potentially offer him. "Well Liam, now that you mention it, her visit did seem a bit peculiar. When Asha first entered my cabin, she told me about Victarion's impending coronation, and that I was expected to attend. I could've received that same information from my steward, or one of my officers. Asha didn't need to inform me herself."

"Aye, that is odd," said Liam.

"I even told her as much. Then she started asking about our first encounter, when my ship captured hers. Asha asked what I would've done if I were in command instead of Captain Diarmad."

"And what was your answer?"

"I told her honestly that I would have destroyed her ship without a second thought. She seemed to approve of that. She also asked about our firearms."

"I see. What did you tell Asha about firearms?"

"Only what she needed to know. I gave her a brief history about our people's discovery of gunpowder, and of our campaign against the Asshai with it. I didn't tell her how to load a musket, fire a cannon, or prime a grenade. There's no need to inquire any further, my friend."

"Alright, I didn't mean to pry too deep, Richard. Let me finish by saying this: beware of pillow talk. I've learned enough secrets that way to fill a book. Please, don't allow yourself to become a fountain of information."

Richard took a swig from his tankard. "I'll do my best to avoid that, Liam. Thank you."

When the meal was finished, the performing minstrels launched into a lively, upbeat tune. Several men stood up and began dancing joyfully with the serving girls. More joined in as the song progressed. Richard felt someone tapping on his right shoulder. He turned around and found himself looking into the eyes of Asha Greyjoy.

"Care to dance?" she asked with smile.

Richard didn't answer with words. He just stood up from the bench, took Asha by the hand, and led her into the group of dancers.

The young couple danced while Liam looked on, not sure what to make of the affair. Could Asha truly be making an effort to steal information from the Ferens? Or was she merely having an affair with an interested peer? Perhaps it was too soon to tell. Paranoia was a fact of life for any spy, but even the most experienced grew weary of it. Wanting to simply have a pleasant evening, Liam downed the rest of his drink, and then joined his fellow officers near the dais. Maybe one of the serving girls would share his bed tonight. That might put his mind at ease.


	14. Asha II

Asha Greyjoy strolled down a darkened corridor leading to the council chamber in Pyke's Bloody Keep. King Victarion had summoned his war council this morning, as had Admiral Dagher. What were they planning? Asha then remembered the late Captain Dagher's words about the Iron Islands. While she couldn't know for certain yet, Asha guessed that the meeting had to do with the Ferenese Republic's ultimate plan for Westeros, and the role that the ironborn were expected to fill. And what role might that be? Would King Victarion bend the knee to Admiral Dagher? By the Drowned God, she hoped not. The ironborn didn't need another overlord. The Targaryens had been enough.

She entered the council chamber to find the space already occupied. A wide table with a map of Westeros spread out on it stood in the room's center. Several men, ironborn lords and Ferenese officers all, were mingling amongst one another. Asha recognized Rodrik Harlaw, Germund Botley, Dunstan Drumm, and Maron Volmark from the amongst the ironborn lords. There were much fewer Ferens in attendance. Only Willis Dagher and Richard Collins were familiar to Asha. There were three other Ferens in the chamber, one of whom wore a blue uniform similar to that of a Ferenese marine. The second - a younger man with light hair and blue eyes - had a mysterious air about him. Clearly he wasn't a typical frontline warrior, as the rest of the council was. The third man was older, and was dressed in a naval officer's uniform. Another ship captain, perhaps?

The chamber's west door swung open, and King Victarion strode into the room. Admiral Dagher followed close behind, a roll of parchment clutched in his hand. Both men walked right up to the war table without saying a word.

"Good morning gentlemen," Dagher greeted the assembled. "Please, gather around the war table."

The ironborn lords and Ferenese officers shuffled over to the war table, encircling it. Asha joined them, standing beside her uncle. She noticed that the ironborn lords were standing apart from the Ferenese officers. That was understandable. Even though these men were now allied with each other, they'd been enemies less than a week ago. No doubt some mistrust still lingered. Hopefully fighting alongside one another would help reinforce their alliance.

"Ironmen," said Victarion, "I trust you all enjoyed the festivities at my coronation. Now it's time for war. You are all now members of my war council. Before we begin, the Admiral has some introductions to make."

"Thank you, your Grace," Dagher said courteously. "Allow me to introduce General Robert Winston..." The officer wearing a blue coat raised his hand. "...and Vice Admiral Arthur Baird." The naval officer nodded. "The General commands the Ferenese ground forces, and Mr. Baird is in charge of the fleet. I am in charge overall of the Ferenese forces here in Westeros. And Mr. Jones here is our spymaster." Liam saluted.

"Alright," Victarion continued. "Many of you have already heard about the infamous Red Wedding. Does anyone not know what transpired?"

Three ironmen, General Winston, and Vice Admiral Baird raised their hands.

"Asha, fill them in," the King instructed.

Asha cleared her throat. "It happened at the Twins," she said, pointing to the castle's location on the map. "King Robb Stark's host was camped there for Edmure Tully's wedding feast. On the orders of Lord Walder Frey, the Young Wolf's army was massacred in their camp by soldiers from Houses Frey and Bolton. Robb Stark and Catelyn Tully were both murdered, along with several northern nobles. Only a few Stark soldiers managed to escape. House Frey was granted Riverrun by the Iron Throne for their part in the slaughter. Likewise, Lord Roose Bolton is to be Warden of the North."

"Lady Asha is correct," said the Admiral approvingly. "With Robb Stark dead and defeated, Hand of the King Twyin Lannister believes that there shall be no further resistance in the Riverlands. Liam, you agents informed you that House Lannister is withdrawing its forces?"

"That's correct, sir," Liam affirmed. "Their host is marching back south. To Casterly Rock, most likely."

Dagher nodded. "It would seem that our enemy thinks he has won. I propose that we strike immediately."

"And where shall we strike?" asked the King. "Casterly Rock?"

"No. At Seagard." Dagher put a longship figurine on Seagard's map marker. "Holding that castle will give us a fortification with direct access to the coast. From there, we can march our forces north or south. I suggest we march south, and lay siege to Riverrun."

"Why not attack the Twins?" Lord Harlaw asked. "They control the only crossing over the Green Fork for two hundred miles.

"We have engineers that can build our own crossing," General Winston added. "We could also construct rafts, and use them as makeshift ferries."

"What about the artillery?" asked Richard. "And the cavalry? Simple rafts won't support their weight."

Winston offered no reply. He simply scratched his head, puzzled by this dilemma.

"It's possible that we can ignore crossing the Green Fork entirely," Asha noticed. "Instead we can march south, cross the Blue Fork at Oldstones, then attack Riverrun from the north."

"I like it," Victarion commented.

"As do I," Dagher added. "Smart call, my lady."

"Very well, then. Are we in agreement?"

Murmurs of approval and the nodding of heads came from the assembled lords and captains.

"There's just one more detail," said Lord Drumm. Some of us still have bannermen up in the North. What should we do about them?"

"Get them home," Victarion ordered gruffly. "We'll need all of the ironborn for this campaign to succeed. We are going up against House Lannister, after all. This is no time for petty raiding or marauding."

"Understood, your Grace," Lord Drumm said while taking a slight bow.

"Is it possible that House Bolton will send troops down to reinforce House Lannister's host?" Vice Admiral Baird asked.

"It is indeed entirely possible, Mr. Baird," Admiral Dagher affirmed. "We already have a plan of action in place to prevent that."

"Will it work, sir?"

"Oh, it'll work all right. And it's sure to frighten Lord Walder Frey. I can't disclose any more details than that."

Victarion eyed his fellow ironborn. "Lords of the Iron Islands, gather your ships and bannermen. We sail for Seagard in two days' time. Now go, the lot of you."

The ironborn lords filed out of the chamber, with their King taking up the rear. Asha turned to follow.

"Lady Greyjoy, please stay with us," said Dagher's voice from behind.

Asha froze, turned on her heels, and returned to the war table. _What does old Willis want with me_, she thought, _when he already has an army and a fleet to concern him_?

Admiral Dagher was silent for a moment. "Mr. Winston, Mr. Jones," he said after a pause, "you both have your orders. You are dismissed."

Liam and General Winston both saluted and left the chamber.

"Mr. Baird," Willis continued, "once we've taken Seagard, establish a supply line between there and Pyke." He turned and looked Richard the eye. "Mr. Collins, take your ship and one other south to Lannisport. Blockade the harbor. Don't allow the Lannister fleet to sail. You and Mr. Baird are dismissed."

Both men saluted their Admiral and withdrew from the council chamber, leaving Asha alone with the Ferenese commander.

Dagher walked over to Asha, stopping two feet away from the young woman. "My lady," he said softly.

Asha looked him in the eye, trying to ignore his cold stare. "Admiral?"

"I have been informed of your... relationship with Captain Collins." Dagher sounded less than pleased. "I know that you two are close, but I must give you a fair warning: do _not_ take advantage of my officers. Under any circumstances. Is that clear, my lady?"

Asha cleared her throat. "Yes, Admiral."

"Good. Now before you leave, I have a favor to ask of you. Richard is not a careless man, but he appears to have faith in you. Therefore, I want you to take your ship and sail south to Lannisport with the _Revenge_."

The ironborn girl scoffed. No one gave orders to her. "Why would I do that?"

Dagher's expression hardened further. "Because I'm giving you a chance to prove yourself, both to Richard and myself. Sail with him. Show that you're a woman of honor."

"I shall consider it, Admiral," she said honestly.

"The _Revenge_ sails tomorrow. Think fast, my lady."

Admiral Dagher picked up his parchment, bade Asha good day, and departed from the council chamber. Asha left the room soon afterwards. As she walked, her thoughts drifted to her missing brother, Theon. What had become of him? She needed to pay Richard a visit. Perhaps her lover could help answer that question.


	15. Epilogue

The night had fallen over Westeros. A chill breeze cut through the autumn air. Overhead the sky was overcast. Only the moon's light shone through the dense layer of clouds. A lone schooner made her way towards the coast, carried east by the flooding tide and brisk wind. The dark waters concealed her black hull from any eyes ashore.

A hooded figure stood alone on the schooner's bow, looking forlornly at the coast. Days ago, this young man had been a common marine in the Republic's navy. Now he was something else entirely. He carried a bow instead of a musket, and a dagger in place of a bayonet. Chainmail and a heavy black cloak had replaced his uniform of blue. Even his old rank - corporal - was now a relic of the past.

"Henry," said a soft voice from behind.

The hooded man turned and found himself looking at the spymaster. Like Henry, the spymaster also wore a black woolen cloak over chainmail. A short sword hung at his left hip, along with a dagger on his right. The spymaster carried a leather satchel with him. Henry could only guess at its contents - the spymaster had refused to discuss it.

"Yes, sir?" Henry asked.

"Remember not to call me 'sir' once we get ashore. I'm not a knight, and you're no squire. Let's review: who are we?"

"A pair of merchants making our way north."

"Correct. And what's our cargo?"

"Liquor. Wine, ale, rum."

The spymaster nodded approvingly. "You learn fast," he said. "Now let's get to the boat. Our contact awaits us on shore."

The two spies walked amidships and climbed down into a waiting rowboat. A lone sailor sat ready at the oars. The schooner's commander, Lieutenant Nolan, bid the spies good luck and ordered the boatman to row them ashore, which he did without a word.

The boat slowed to a stop as her keel bit into the mud. The spymaster climbed out, followed closely by Henry. Two carts laden with barrels stood on the road just off the beach. Two draft horses were harnessed to each wagon. Henry spotted two men standing with the wagons. Both were dressed identically to the spymaster, marking them as agents of the Republic.

The spymaster approached the nearest agent. "Good work, Mr. Dresden," he said in a near-whisper. "There's a boat waiting on the beach. You and Mr. Klein get yourselves to it. Tell its pilot I sent you. Now go make yourselves scarce. We'll take it from here."

Henry and the spymaster watched the two men walk down the beach and climb into the waiting boat. The boat departed without further incident, carrying her passengers to the safety of the schooner.

The spymaster turned back to his accomplice. "Alright Henry. Get aboard the after wagon and follow me. It's a long ride to our destination."

Henry nodded and climbed into his wagon's driver's seat. The two spies then rode north into the night, embarking on a dangerous, secret mission for the Ferenese Republic.

For the First Men had returned to Westeros.

* * *

To be continued in A River of Blood.


End file.
